


Of Fire and Snow

by KellyChase



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, DEAL WITH IT, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I won't tell you which ship is endgame, Jon Snow knows nothing, Minor Violence, No Fluff, POV Jon Snow, POV Little Finger, POV Petyr Baelish, POV Sansa, Porn, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Season/Series 06, Romance, Smut, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-07-24 05:11:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 43,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7495140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KellyChase/pseuds/KellyChase
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story picks up immediately after Season 6. Sansa is back in Winterfell, but she is far from safe. As she faces the threats of the enemies at her gates and the ghosts from her past, she finds herself torn between two men, the cunning and deadly Petyr Baelish and her brooding, but noble (presumed) half-brother Jon. Can she find her way through the maze of secrets and lies?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Petyr

**Author's Note:**

> I don't write fluff, and I care not for your feelings.

**Chapter One | Petyr**

He'd imagined it a thousand times before — maybe more. Definitely more. In his quiet moments, it was always there, flashing behind his eyelids, slithering like a sickness through his gut, haunting him. Devouring him from the inside out.

Her red hair seemed impossible in the firelight, the strands dancing like the flames themselves, pooling around her as she sank back into the thick furs strewn across the bed. Her breath came rapidly, her red lips parting lushly around a moan so full of unhinged desire that it was almost a sob. Beneath the silken, white column of her throat he could see the quiver of her pulse as her breasts fell free from her gown.

_Cat._

In all of the Seven Kingdoms, of all the wonders that he had seen, of all the riches and pleasures that he had earned and plundered, never had there been anything so beautiful as she. He'd been driven mad by it long ago — a madness that had driven him inexorably from the glorified backwater over which he was lord, to the hallowed halls of power in the Red Keep.

Having held her in his arms, having felt her heated flesh yield to the ministrations of his reverent fingers — even if only that once — what could ever compare? What could sate the hunger that was sparked in him lying in the green summer grass all those years ago?

He'd found nothing thus far. He hoped that the world might be enough, but the closer he got the more uncertain he became. There was only one other thing…

_Cat._

And here she was finally, just as he'd imagined. His eyes drank it all in. It was death to look, but he was powerless to turn away. The exquisite curve of her back as it arched off the bed, the swell of her breasts as the rose petal pink of her nipples beaded harshly into aching points, the curl of her toes as one alabaster thigh rose up from under her ravaged skirts — no detail was lost on him. He couldn't breathe.

But just like every time before it was Ned who was there, lowering himself onto her. His dark hair fell across his face, skimming a strong, wolf-like jaw that was clenched with brutal and unbridled passion as he kissed her. He could see the strain of his muscles working against themselves as Ned thrust his hands into her hair, visibly fighting himself, trying to go slow — always the gentleman, always the Lord of Winterfell. From his spot in the darkened passageway a bitter smirk crept across Petyr's lips even as the sickness inside him roiled.

Ned's eyes were locked with hers, the fire reflected in them a mere shadow of the fire that was raging behind them. Slowly at first and then all at once, something inside him seemed to dissolve and give way. He lowered his forehead to hers and breathed her name.

"Sansa..."

Because, of course, Cat was gone. And so was Ned. And here now in her place was Sansa, her daughter, likeness, and equal in every way — his Catlynn in the full bloom of youth returned to him finally after all this time. But once again, it seemed, he'd lost her to a brutishly noble Northern Lord.

"Jon. Please, look at me." He could hear the tremble in her voice, though her words were barely above a whisper. Jon opened his eyes and looked down at her with an unfathomable look, pain and desire churning together under the black of his eyes.

And her eyes. Oh, her eyes… The sickness that had been sliding through him grew to a cold boil. Her eyes were soft and vulnerable, glistening with unchecked tears that pooled and then spilled across her flushed cheeks, tracing glistening rivers back into her red hair.

He could remember the last time that he'd seen her that way, in the throne room of the Eyrie after Lysa fell screaming through the moon door. He'd held her as she'd wept — a frail and broken thing crushed against his chest, clawing at him like she couldn't get close enough.

She'd been trembling when he left her in her chambers. Everything in him ached to stay and comfort her, but Lysa was dead and that would need to be answered for. The only way to protect her was to leave her there, shaking like the last leaf before winter.

But when she rose the next day all of her softness was gone. Her perfect white skin now encased something stronger than steel — and colder as well. He'd felt the dagger of her change profoundly, though he knew in many ways it was better. She'd need to be something stronger than steel in the wars to come.

Yet now here she was spread beneath Jon Snow, opened to him, clinging to him, a sheen of perspiration causing her skin to glisten in the firelight despite the cold northern night that wafted snowflakes in through the open window. She was no longer cold. She was an inferno. He felt himself being consumed as he watched her.

Jon's eyes left hers and drifted down to where his fingers traced the red stain of her parted lips. His other hand pinned her wrists to the bed above her head, trapping her, but it was clear that there was no need to subdue her. She'd given herself over to him completely. One milk white thigh hitched wantonly around his waist.

Her tears were a silent river now, her eyes wild and her skin intoxicatingly flushed. And then she said his name again, "Jon…Jon, please…" She trailed off, unwilling or unable to give voice to her desires. For his cock, for his love, for his protection, for all three — Petyr couldn't be sure. But he knew that no man could possibly resist such a plea from a woman such as Sansa — not even a Stark Lord. Not even when he believed her to be his sister. There was no way to deny her.

Petyr took three slow, quiet steps backwards from the slightly opened door before pivoting on his heels and disappearing back into the dark passage way. He had no doubt that she would get what she wanted, but he couldn't bear to watch another man give it to her.


	2. Sansa

**Chapter Two | Sansa**

The night had been a blur. Seated at Jon's side in front of what remained of the Northern Houses, Sansa's mind strayed back to the Godswood where Petyr had only hours before declared his love for her and laid bare his intentions.

_Or what he wants me to believe his intentions to be._

Because who could truly trust Lord Baelish? No one. She was certain of that. She'd seen firsthand what Little Finger was willing to do to secure what he wanted. She'd seen the look in Lysa's eyes as he'd pushed her through the moon door.

And what was that betrayal to him? Only one of a thousand schemes and machinations that he had orchestrated to meet his ends — whatever they might be. But to Lysa, it was everything. She'd loved him. She'd killed her husband. She'd waited. She'd believed. And then she'd died.

She remembered Petyr's face as he'd pushed her. His eyes were calm, perhaps even a little triumphant.

_"I've only loved one woman my entire life. Your sister."_

Lysa had teetered on the edge, time seeming to stop as she hovered in space above her inevitable doom. Her eyes registered understanding and then horror. And then she was no more.

"Sansa. Are you OK?" Jon's large hand covered hers on the table as he leaned into her, his dark eyes full of heat and concern, his voice a whisper to keep his words from their company. She shook off the memory and forced a smile.

"Yes. Of course." His eyes searched hers. He leaned closer, his lips hovering just inches from her ear. Undoubtedly his intention was to block his face from their guests as he whispered to her, but the warm gust of his breath on her exposed flesh sent a deep shiver through her that arrowed to her core.

"You're safe now, Sansa. I swear it. Ramsay is gone and no matter what happens here tonight or in any night that follows, I will give my life to keep you from harm. No one will touch you again."

Sansa's heart warmed at his words, just as her flesh heated. It was a response she was having far too often around Jon. She breathed in the heady scent of him and pressed her thighs together beneath her skirts trying to relieve some of the confounding pressure she felt there.

This was Jon, her brother. Alright her _half_ -brother, but her brother all the same. Sansa didn't know if it was all of the years that they'd spent apart, all of the horror that they'd experienced since, or just the relief of being in the relative safety of her home again, but lately when Jon looked at her something seemed to crackle in the air between them.

She leaned into him, allowing her lips to just graze the shell of his ear with her reply.

"I'm OK, Jon, really. My mind just wandered, but I'm here with you. Tell me what you need." Something flashed behind his eyes, but before Sansa could process it he turned his head from her to the guests gathering before them, taking the measure of them. Then his lips were once again at her ear.

"I need to know that we are together in this. I don't know what the outcome of this meeting will be, but I need to know that I won't lose you again. Winterfell is yours. You are a true Stark. I will never challenge you. I want only to protect you. We have too many enemies now to be divided."

_Oh my sweet, noble Jon. How did I not see you when we were children? How did I not know?_

A small smile played across her lips. Jon was not a politician. He was a warrior — noble, strong and proud, but altogether unfamiliar with the ways of statecraft. But he had her — she who had studied at the very feet of everyone from Little Finger to Cersei Lannister herself, learning their ways, learning how to maneuver.

"I've spoken with Lyanna Mormont. She'll declare for you and the rest will follow."

"But she's only a child."

"Yes — a child and a girl. And she stood by you in the battle, which you won. They're all here because you won. And when she speaks of how the North remembers and declares for you again, who among them will now be able to deny you?"

Jon looked into her eyes, incredulous.

"But even if that works — Sansa, Winterfell is yours."

"It will work. And Winterfell is ours," she said, placing one hand against his heart under the thick cascade of his wolf skin cloak. "I told you that you are a true Stark to me. I meant it."

The ghost of a smile played across Jon's lips as he studied her. Under his cloak, one hand raised to cover his over his heart.

"Together then."

"Together," she agreed.

* * *

"The White Wolf! The King in the North!" Sansa's voice was teasing, but her eyes danced as she looked at Jon. They sat together on the foot of her bed wine in hand, staring at the fire.

A broad grin broke across Jon's face. "I know. Fucking hell." His laugh was warm and deep and Sansa felt her laugh spilling out of her along with him. How long had it been since she'd laughed?

"I will probably fuck this up, you know. I was raised for the life of a bastard." His tone was playful, but she sensed the unease beneath his worth.

"And I was raised to cross stitch," Sansa replied wryly, raising her wine to her lips. The truth behind her words suddenly struck her and she laughed again until tears pricked in her eyes. When she calmed herself, Jon was looking at her, his face a mirror of her mirth, but possessed of something else as well. He reached for her hand.

"You were amazing tonight, Sansa, truly. This is all your doing."

"Winterfell is ours. No one will ever take our home from us again."

"Never," Jon agreed.

Sansa ducked under the arm that held her hand, snuggling into Jon's side. It was funny, she could never remember touching Jon as a child — not even once. But something in their relationship shifted when their eyes met at Castle Black. He'd walked toward her as if seeing ghost, his face now hardened into the hard lines of a man's face, his eyes wild with something she'd never seen before.

He was taller now with broad, strong shoulders like her father's, but the rest of him was painted in more brutally elegant lines. She'd spent years dreaming of the day that she would see her family again, but in that moment the pull that she felt was something more that her desire for familial reunion. She wanted to run to him, to throw herself into his arms, to —

And then he was on her, crushing her to him, kissing her forehead and cheeks, and she wanted only to be alone with him somewhere away from all of the eyes that preyed upon them.

And now they were alone. She nestled into his side, letting the heat of his body and the wine in her belly warm her — both were intoxicating. She rested her head on his shoulder and looked up at him, his chiseled profile accentuated by the dancing fire light.

He was breathtaking. She couldn't deny it. As the wine stole through her veins she didn't even try. He raised his goblet to his lips and took a long drink, a single crimson drop of wine clinging to his lower lip. Sansa wanted to raise her fingers to wipe it away, to take one gentle sweep of her tongue and taste the wine mingled with the taste of him.

Brusquely Jon wiped his lips with the back of hand and looked down at Sansa with laughing eyes, but something in her face froze him in place. Without looking away, he placed the goblet on the table beside him and raised his fingers to her cheek, gently pushing back the stray strands of her hair then tracing her delicate jaw line until his thumb rested on her chin, just grazing her bottom lip.

Slowly and without breaking his gaze, Sansa tilted her face upward to Jon's and placed a soft, lingering kiss near the corner of his mouth. His skin felt warm under the coarse tangle of his beard, and he smelled earthy and clean like the Godswood after a fresh snow. Letting the wine take full hold of her, she nuzzled her face into his cheek, her arms snaking around his waist soaking him in.

A low growl erupted from deep in Jon's chest and she knew she had gone too far, but as she pulled back, embarrassed, he held her to him. She looked up into his dark eyes which seemed suddenly filled with an unfathomable pain and — something else.

In one swift movement he had her on her back, his arm banded around her waist. His lips found hers almost violently. Sansa felt her body respond immediately in a way that was both foreign and primal. She'd never really known desire before. She'd been too young and full of girlish naiveté with Joffrey, and then too full of hatred and revulsion. Tyrion had been no lover to her, and she was grateful for it. The clandestine kisses and caresses that Lord Baelish had visited upon her had stirred something in her, but she'd always been too wary of him to do anything but mildly accept his advances. And then there was Ramsay…

But this was Jon. Her sweet and noble Jon with eyes like her father's. This was Jon who would never hurt her, who would do anything to protect her.

Sansa's legs parted as Jon kissed her hungrily, his hand sliding up her thigh, pushing her skirts higher. He settled heavily in between them, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips making the heavy weight of his manhood known to her. She gasped against his lips her core clenching greedily at the feel of him against her inner thigh.

His hands moved to her bodice, his finger deftly undoing the laces until her breasts were bared to his eager touch. He captured one nipple between his fingers rolling it between his fingers, the almost unbearable pleasure echoing in her sex. Her back arched, mindlessly seeking a greater friction where she needed it most.

Instantly sensing her need, Jon shifted himself to oblige her. One hand dove beneath her skirts, seeking out her center, pushing the yards of fabric aside like a man possessed. A low, dark sound escaped him as he found her drenched sex. His kisses grew harsher, more demanding as his fingers lightly rimmed her trembling cleft before parting her sensitive folds and thrusting deep inside of her.

Sansa cried out as she clung to him, panting heavily against his relentless mouth. His fingers moved almost lazily inside of her, stirring her desire until she thought she would go mad from it, and just as she was about to beg he placed his thumb against her clit, circling it with a wicked pressure that sent her spiraling over the edge, crying his name.

And still he kissed her, devouring her mouth. With both hands free now, they roamed her body seeking out every undiscovered plane. The pleasure and sense of relief was too much. Unbidden, she let out a sound that was almost a sob. Jon slowed his movements, rearing up over her to look into her eyes.

She felt her tears begin to flow, hot with an emotion for which she had no name but which threatened to consume her. Jon lowered his forehead to hers, his fingers tangled in her hair.

"Sansa…"

It was the first time he had spoken and the serrated sound of her name on his lips cut like hot steel. Under her fingers she could feel the muscles of his back coiling, hardening as something deep within him shifted. Panic shot through her.

"Jon. Please look at me." He pulled his head back slowly to look at her, but where there was fire before there was now only darkness. Desperate, she tried to draw his lips to hers, but he was as rigid as stone beneath her coaxing fingers.

One hand absently captured her wrists, drawing them upward over her head as his eyes drifted down to her swollen lips. He traced them lightly with his free hand, almost reverently — but he was a million miles away. Sansa couldn't bear it.

"Jon…Jon, please…"

He drew his hand into a fist and his jaw clenched. His eyes refused to meet hers.

"I can't. Sansa…I can't."

He lifted himself from her in one swift movement and was gone before Sansa could call out his name. She tried to stand, but her knees wobbled dangerously beneath her. Sobbing, she collapsed back into the furs, letting the grief take her.


	3. Jon

**Chapter Three | Jon**

The soft grey light of early morning filtered down through the leaves of the Godswood, and Jon was drunk. He'd never been much of one for drinking, but this night — now this morning, he supposed — he was drinking. He leaned back against the bone white trunk of the weirwood and took another deep swallow of wine.

His father would be horrified to see him drunk here, defiling this sacred space. He couldn't be trusted with anything it seemed.

_Sansa…_

Even now in the depths of this hell of his own making, even as he bit back bile knowing what he had done, his blood heated at the thought of her. The petal-soft feel of her skin, the way she gasped his name against his lips, the tight, wet, plush little heaven of her —

With a strangled roar he threw what remained of his bottle of wine. It landed with an unsatisfying thud against a neighboring tree, the last of the sweet southern wine — presented to him so ceremoniously by that pretentious cunt Little Finger — spilling out like blood into the new snow.

Little Finger. He hated having that snake under his roof, but seeing as how he wouldn't be under his roof without him, he couldn't exactly turn him and his legion out into the snow. There were wounded men to tend to. He wouldn't be much of a King if he didn't extend his hospitality to the men that risked their lives for his.

He placed his head between his hands and closed his eyes, trying to dull the pounding he felt between them. It seemed absurd to him that he was a King. It seemed even more absurd that anyone should risk their lives for his when he valued his own so little. He'd died once, and honestly, he wished he had stayed that way — until he saw _her_.

Behind his eyelids he could see her. The snow clinging to her red hair, the way her ice blue eyes had swept the courtyard with a guarded, regal gaze — even in her ragged cloak, her face streaked with dirt, she looked like a queen as she entered the gates of Castle Black.

He should have called out to her as soon as he saw her, but he couldn't. He was transfixed. He was undone. She circled around and her eyes met his.

_Sansa…_

With his face still in his hands he heard Ghost loping towards him from behind the trees, a whisper of a growl letting him know that someone was approaching. He wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve and straightened himself.

"Ghost. To me." Ghost settled near him, looking expectantly into the darkness.

"Begging your pardon, my Lord. Pardon — your Grace." Little Finger appeared from the shadows with a deep bow. As he stepped out into the dim light of the clearing, his eyes landed on the bottle lying in the wine-stained snow.

"That vintage was not to your liking, Your Grace?" A smile played across Little Finger's lips.

"Not at all," said Jon. "If anything I liked it too much."

"It was a night for celebration," Little Finger replied.

"Indeed." They settled into an uneasy silence.

"What brings you here at such an early hour, Lord Baelish?" asked Jon, clearing his throat. "I didn't think that your house kept the Old Gods."

"I am the last of my house. They keep what I keep," he replied, skirting the rim of the frozen pool.

"And what is that?" asked Jon.

"Secrets, mostly." Little Finger's face was grave, but a twinkle in his eye betrayed him. Jon managed a wry smile.

"So, I've heard." Jon considered him for a long moment. "You also kept me alive. You kept Sansa alive. You delivered our home back to us. Why? Or is that a secret?"

Little Finger raised his face to the dawn that was beginning to filter down through the limbs of the trees above, then turned slowly to face him.

"You'd like to know what I want, Your Grace." His tone was direct. It wasn't a question.

"You don't have to call me that when we're alone. I'm here because of you. Call me, Jon." Little Finger inclined his head in ascent.

"But the question remains."

"It does," said Jon. "I need to know what it cost me."

"This time, nothing. In this matter our interests were aligned."

"And what interests are those?" asked Jon, rising to his feet, hoping that his unsteadiness was not as apparent as it felt.

"The stability of the North. The stability of the realm. I think you recognize in me that I have…ambitions." Jon clenched and unclenched his fist, considering his words.

"And Sansa?" His question seemed to in the hang in the cold morning air even as his frozen breath dissipated.

"I loved her mother very much," said Little Finger with a rueful smile. "Out of love for her, I helped Sansa escaped from King's Landing when I could. I wish it had been sooner. I did what I could to protect her."

"You sold her to Ramsay Bolton," Jon replied, his voice full of a fury that he had meant to contain.

Little Finger's face turned ashen, "I didn't know. I thought she would be safe. I thought her name would protect her, especially here. I swear to you — I didn't know."

Jon tried to quiet the roaring of his blood as he looked at the finely dressed man before him. Little Finger's face seemed to bear a genuine and profound regret, and yet he could not stop himself from imagining the crunch of his bones beneath his fists.

Sansa had never told him what Ramsay had done to her, but he could guess. He saw the way that her eyes would sometimes lose focus and her hands would begin to tremble. He'd heard her wake screaming in the night.

At Castle Black, there were nights when she'd come to him, drenched in a cold sweat, shaking, unable to speak. He'd wrapped her in furs and held her against his chest, talking to her for hours — telling her the stories that Old Nan had told them, telling her of things he'd seen beyond the wall — until she'd fallen into an exhausted sleep.

"I came back for her," said Little Finger, his eyes full of anguish. "I couldn't undo what had been done to her, but I could give her back her home." Jon let out his breath in a violent gust, raising his eyes to meet Little Finger's. Lord Baelish was the first to look away.

"I'm sorry. I can't tell you how truly sorry I am. My men and I will be gone by tomorrow." He turned back the way he came, making his way to the edge of the clearing.

"No. Your men need to rest. You'll stay as long as you need to." Little Finger turned to face him from the tree line.

"Thank you, Jon." He turned again to leave and then seemed to reconsider.

"She's lucky to have you," he said, his voice brimming with emotion. "After all that she's been through, after all the ways that she has been hurt and exploited, she's lucky to have her brother to protect her now. I can only imagine what it means to her."

Little Finger had barely turned before Jon's tears began to fall, the weight of his words tearing a hole in his chest through which the cold winter wind howled — and he howled along with it. It was almost dark again before he stood and made his way out of the Godswood.


	4. Petyr

**Chapter Four | Petyr**

Petyr emerged from the Godswood filled with a grim triumph. Nobility made people so predictable. He was grateful that he didn't have that particular vice.

He cast a glance up to the window of Sansa's chambers, hoping that she lay sleeping within. Her sobs the night before had gutted him. He'd longed to go to her, but he couldn't show his hand.

He stood in an alcove of the darkened passageway long after Jon Snow had strode past — too blinded by his own anguish to notice the figure lurking in the shadows — and listened to her weep. He ached for her, even as she cried out for another man. He envied Jon his ability to walk away from her, even as he hated him for it.

He hadn't slept. His every move sang with the dull ache of exhaustion, but he knew that he had hours to go before he would rest. Everything had shifted during that long night. It was time to set a new course. He squared his shoulders and set off across the yard.

He motioned to a young squire who was one of his retinue. The boy scrambled over and looked up at him expectantly. Petyr pressed a shiny copper into his grubby hand.

"I want to be informed the second that Lady Sansa emerges from her chambers," he said.

"But, my Lord, she's already risen," he replied gesturing up to the battlements. Petyr could see the whisper of her red hair as it blew in the winter wind. He smiled and closed the boy's hand around the copper.

"Thank you."

Petyr climbed the stairs slowly, collecting his thoughts. It was rare for him to question himself. The maneuverings of the Great Game were second nature to him, like breathing. When the stakes were at their highest was when he was the most serene.

He could see all of the players like pieces in a chess game. He could see the all of the moves, the counter moves, the potential missteps — with a plan in place for every potential reality. He felt like he was always living in the future, a few moves ahead, always impatiently waiting for the rest of the world to catch up — for events to unfold the way that he knew they must.

But with Sansa it was different. He'd made a mistake. He couldn't tell where exactly, but somewhere along the way he had taken a wrong turn. Somewhere the balance of power had shifted and his most prized possession, his deadliest weapon in the wars to come was now the one secret that he felt certain that he would give his life to bury forever.

He cursed himself inwardly. After all of these many years to have made such a misstep —

There was only one way forward.

Her beauty was like a dagger. He never laid eyes on her without being cut. She stood on the battlements facing the carnage of the battlefield below, her wild red hair standing in stark contrast to the cold, impassive beauty of her ice blue eyes.

Beneath the walls, figures crisscrossed the ravaged battlefield, making slow work with wooden carts of the countless bodies still strewn there. In the distance, great fires burned, the acrid smell of man and horse flesh wafting on the wind. Sansa observed it all with a steely gaze.

"Jon ordered them all to be burned," she said without turning, "even the horses."

Petyr's step faltered. Had she sensed him coming? Could it be that he possessed even a shadow of the pull for her that she did for him?

"I knew you would find me here, Lord Baelish" she said mildly, as if in answer to his unasked question. He approached her slowly.

"My Lady…" They stood in silence for a moment. "Would you like me to leave?"

Finally, she turned to face him, her face a dispassionate mask, but her eyes betraying a siege of emotion.

"Would it matter if I did?" she asked.

"It would. What you want matters to me, my love. More than you know. It is the only thing left that matters to me." It was rare for Petyr to speak such a bare truth, even in the service of a greater plan. It left him feeling vulnerable in a way that made his stomach turn, but still he held her gaze, hoping that she would see the sincerity of his words there. She considered him for a long moment and then turned away again.

"Did you get what you wanted last night?" he asked, moving to stand beside her, his right hand resting on the wall next to hers. Her shoulders tightened with the sting of his question, and he regretted it almost immediately. But there was only one way forward.

"Yes," she said finally. "Jon is the King in the North. Our allies have rallied to his side — not that they had much choice in the matter. But once declared, it's doubtful that they will not back us again. Not after last night. The honor of their houses is on the line."

Understanding and then pride swelled in Petyr's chest. Of course! How had he not seen it?

"You spoke to Lyanna Mormont. You convinced her to speak first," he said, his tone betraying his mirth.

"I did," she said, glancing sideways at him with a conspiratorial smile that made his pulse quicken.

"I'm impressed," he said with a small chuckle.

"But not happy."

"There's only one thing that could make me happy," he replied ruefully, his gloved little finger sliding gently along the side of hers. She didn't respond but she didn't pull away, so he left his hand there, the slight pressure of the contact sending a thrill up his arm.

"Does Jon know what you did for him?" he asked.

"Yes. And I did it for us. Jon and I are partners," she said firmly.

"Are you?"

Sansa spun on him, her impassive face suddenly simmering with rage.

"Yes," she said evenly, "We are."

Petyr held both hands up, inclining his head in a bow.

"My Lady, I meant no offense. It's only that —"

"What? Say it, Petyr. You came here to say something to me, and I suggest that you do so quickly and be gone."

"My love, it's only that I have known many lords and kings and they don't have partners — especially not the noble ones." Her face stayed hardened, but she did not stop him, so he continued.

"All of this," he said, gesturing to the remains of the slaughter below, "all of this he did for you. And so did I. I would do it again. I would do anything in my power to protect you. I would burn down the world and rule over the ashes if it would keep you safe."

"But what about Jon?" he asked stepping toward her. "He sits upon your father's chair, he is your father's son, and winter is here. The entire North is now his to protect. The Wall is his to protect. Even the Wildlings, it appears, are his to protect. He won't be able to keep you here — he will have to marry you off. He will need all of the alliances that he can get to protect the lives that are now his to protect." He closed the distance between them, his eyes boring into hers.

"Those bodies that are burning," he gestured to the horizon without breaking her gaze, "he's burning them because he has seen the Army of the Undead. He knows the threat that looms beyond the wall, and he knows what it is coming." He raised a gloved hand to her cheek. Her eyes were cool blue fire, but she didn't rebuff his touch.

"I am not questioning your brother's nobility, Sansa," he continued quietly, his eyes soft and imploring. "I am simply asking you if, based on what you have seen of him, you believe that in the critical hour he will make the smart choice or the noble choice? Can you trust him to do what he must, or will he lead you and everyone who follows him over a cliff? We know what choice your father made."

With lightning quickness, Sansa struck him across the face, the sting leaving Petyr momentarily reeling.

"Enough!" Sansa's voice was quiet, but filled with a seething, feral rage. "You are NEVER to speak of my father. I forbid his name to ever cross your lips again, or I will have you hanged, I swear it."

"If you wish me to hang, then I'll hang, my love." He bowed slowly and then turned, leaving her, a small smile crossing his lips as he descended into the darkness.


	5. Sansa

**Chapter Five | Sansa**

Jon did not appear for supper, nor in the hours that followed. Sansa had hours earlier fallen mindlessly into the tasks of running a household hosting several hundred guests. She quietly thanked whatever gods might be listening that Ramsay had been prepared to withstand a long siege at Winterfell, allowing them to accommodate so large a number with relative ease.

Still there were a thousand small matters that needed to be tended to, and in Jon's absence it fell to her. Whatever small resentment that she felt was quickly replaced by a sense of relief at having such a consuming distraction.

She felt Little Finger's eyes on her throughout the day as he glided along the periphery. He gave her a wide berth, but whenever her eyes scanned the room she found him there watching, his eyes full of something unknowable. Sansa cast him a cold look and turned away.

Her blood still boiled when she thought of his words as they stood on the battlements. To hear him speak of her father that way — her father, the most noble and honorable man who had ever lived —

And yet, under her anger there was something else — a deep and growing unease.

Sometimes when Little Finger was speaking to her she felt as if she were standing in the middle of a vast and roaring river, her feet straining to find purchase on the riverbed below. She felt herself losing ground, moving down stream, getting further and further from home. In his presence she was never entirely steady, never fully sure.

And his touch stirred something in her — which infuriated her. It was not like what she felt with Jon; it was something darker, something perverse even, but it stirred her all the same. As she worked she kept remembering the feel of his gloved hand on her cheek, remembering the slow and measured way that he used to kiss her when they were alone. His kisses never lasted for long, just a few gentle sweeps of his lips, a tentative caress of his tongue that always tasted somehow like tobacco and black cherries, though she'd never seen him with either.

She'd accepted his kisses placidly, never rebuffing him, but never fully reciprocating either. He would pull back from her when he had finished, his hands still on the side of her face, his eyes searching, waiting for some sort of sign which she never gave — would never allow herself to give.

Yet, when he would pull away, straightening himself, smoothing his perfectly groomed hair as if he'd just come in from a storm, she'd find herself gritting her teeth against the unwelcome hope that maybe next time he wouldn't stop. Maybe next time he wouldn't be so in control.

She shut her eyes hard against the thought. Little Finger was a disease in her mind — a disease that she needed to be rid of once and for all. When she'd denied his kiss in the Godswood — the first time she'd ever denied him — she'd thought that she had freed herself for good. They'd retaken Winterfell. She had Jon. She didn't need him anymore.

But Jon — oh, how had she fucked things up so terribly?

The night had been so perfect. They'd been together. They'd been a unit. She'd watched him all night, full of pride, full of love, as he'd spoken to the heads of each house. For a reluctant King, he'd fallen into the role easily, quickly gaining the love and admiration of all who spoke with him.

He'd kept her close to him all night, his eyes darting to her often as he spoke. As each new round of Lords approached him to pay their tribute, he had inclined his head toward her, whispering in the shorthand of two people who've known each other all their lives.

He clearly deferred to her on matters of state and politics and smiled at her with pride and gratitude as she apprised him quickly of marriages, alliances, and connections to King's Landing. Her heart ached now as she remembered the way that his hand had squeezed hers discreetly under the table — the way that he'd pulled her hand into his lap under the cascade of his cloak, his fingers gently tracing the soft flesh of her wrist, his fingertips grazing lightly over hers as he spoke.

And as the crowds had dissipated and the men had stumbled off to their beds for the night, he'd lead her up the stairs, his hand warm in the small of her back as they walked. They'd lingered in the passageway outside her door, their talk of politics quickly giving way to laughter, both of them so filled with relief, wine sloshing clumsily from their goblets.

She'd shivered, standing there in the drafty hallway with him. Always the nobleman, he'd smiled and lead her, still laughing, into her chambers, quickly rebuilding the fire that the servants had made hours ago, stoking the embers until the chill of the room was chased away by the steady blaze.

And when he'd kissed her, his hands roaming so greedily, claiming every inch of her, every inch that she so willingly gave —

"Pardon, my Lady, but you wouldn't happen to know where your brother is, would you?" Her heated thoughts were interrupted by Ser Davos. She felt herself flush and hoped that he would attribute her reddened state to the wine and the roaring fire.

"I'm sorry, Ser Davos, I —"

"He's in the Lord's Chambers," Lord Baelish said, appearing over Sansa's shoulder. "The King's Chamber's, to be more precise." He lowered himself into the seat next to Sansa.

"My father's chambers?" she asked.

"Yes, my Lady. He had his things moved this evening. It seemed only proper," replied Lord Baelish, his eyes meeting hers.

"I suppose it can wait until the morning," said Ser Davos, finishing his wine in one gulp. "I'm ready to retire myself." With a bow and the appropriate pleasantries, he was gone. Only Sansa and Little Finger remained.

"You were perfect today, my love," said Petyr, leaning toward her, his eyes dark and flashing like a blade in the firelight. "It's quite a burden to bear on one's own, running a kingdom, but you seem to have the gift for it." Sansa turned to him, considering him with tired eyes and a weary heart.

"Good night, Lord Baelish," she said finally rising from her chair.

"My lady," he said rising with an elegant bow. "Until tomorrow." Sansa didn't reply, only her skirts whispering as she made the long walk across the great hall.


	6. Jon

**Chapter Six | Jon**

_There are so many ghosts here…_

Jon drank deeply from his goblet as he leaned against the cold stone of the window looking down onto the courtyard. He could see Robb there still, and Theon, Rickon and Bran. Watching the snow dance and swirl in the torchlight below, he could still hear the echo of their shouts and laughter as they'd played there as boys, swinging wooden swords, dreaming of glory and war.

But there is no glory in war — he knew that now. There is only death, chaos, and despair.

His father must have known that. Jon remembered the way that he had laughed with King Robert as they reminisced about fighting in the rebellion, clearly reveling in the retelling of the conquests of his youth. It was one of the last memories that he had of his father, and it stood frozen in his mind. He'd returned to that image many times — after Robb had died, after the siege at Castle Black, after the horrors he'd witnessed at Hardhome — and wondered how his father could stomach the retelling. Jon knew that no matter how many years had passed, he would never look back on these years of endless war and laugh. There was only darkness.

Robb could have laughed. Robb, noble and strong, the very spitting image of his father — Robb could have taken all these blows and more and remained standing.

"It should have been you, brother," Jon said, making a toast to the courtyard below. "You should be here instead of me."

Now here he was, a lowly bastard, a crow on the Wall, somehow now the King in the North. The world must really and truly be going to shit, he thought.

This was Robb's place. These chambers should be Robb's chambers. These burdens should be Robb's, as well. He'd know what to do next. He'd know how to rule.

_And he could have kept his hands off of his own sister._

Jon clenched his jaw tightly. Sansa…fuck. He'd spent all night and most of the day in the Godswood drinking and staring into the frozen pool beside the weirwood hoping to find some kind of answer, some kind of sign, some kind of way out of this hell of his own making.

He didn't want to rule, but he could bear it. He didn't want to face the horrors that winter would bring, but he would. But how did he keep himself away from Sansa? How did he resist the inexorable pull of her? Like a moth to a flame, like a madman, he was obsessed. And in his moment of weakness, as he'd pulled her into his arms, as his hands had claimed her so intimately, she'd yielded to him without reservation. She'd clung to him, crying out his name against his skin as she trembled beneath his touch —

If only she'd turned him away. The pain of that would have slayed him, but at least it would be done. He would never push her, would never hurt her.

But he had hurt her. Even if she'd opened herself to him willingly, the lamb to the slaughter, she was still his to protect. Who knew what horrors Ramsay Bolton had visited upon her, and what effect all of those nights of terror had…

And he was her brother, her guardian, her champion. And in the sickness of his lust for her he'd exposed them both to scandal and the dangers inherent therein. True or no, the whispers about an illicit affair between Cersei Lannister and her brother, the Kingslayer, had upended the Seven Kingdoms — and he had not one one thousandth of the power, money and resources that they had. He would not be able to shield Sansa from the whatever came next.

He would have to marry. That was certain. The bids for a match had already begun, and before long he would have to show good faith with the great houses of the North and choose one of their daughters as his queen. He could do his duty, and he would.

But Sansa…

How would he marry her off? How would he bear it when she left him? How would he be able to draw breath knowing that she was lying in another man's bed. And yet, how could he keep her here? Even if some way he could manage it all without the critical alliances that her marriage could bring, how would he watch her walk these halls and pretend to be only her doting brother?

Everywhere that he turned there seemed another impossible choice. His desire for her grew in him like a fever that wouldn't break. He couldn't keep her and he couldn't send her away — both were death.

And the worst part was that, in his sickness, he even believed that he was in love with her. He leaned his head against the cold stone of the window well, pressing his forehead into the jagged rock, trying to drive out this madness from his mind.

He was in love with her. What he'd felt for Ygritte had been beautiful and true. He never spoke of her, but he held her in a quiet corner of his heart that would only ever belong to her.

But what he felt for Sansa was something so much more — it was all-consuming. Yes, he lusted for her. Just the brush of her hand against his was enough to make him hard. He longed to spread her naked across his bed, to spend hours devouring every sweet inch of her petal-soft flesh, to push his cock into her, filling her to the hilt, to hear her scream his name once more. Having felt the rapturous way that she had given herself over to him, he was certain that he could keep her in bed for days and never tire. There could never be enough of her.

But he didn't just need her in his bed. He needed her at his side. He needed her wit and her steady gaze. He needed her confidence and her advice. He just needed _her_. He couldn't rule on his own. She'd gotten him there, they were a team, and he knew that he couldn't go forward alone.

Jon was shaken from his thoughts by Sansa's voice outside his door. "He's my brother and I need to speak to him. Tell him I'm here."

All reason was suddenly cast to the side, and with a days-worth of wine still swimming in his veins, Jon strode to the door and flung it open.

"Ser Dandrick, let her pass." The young knight — one of Little Finger's retinue — stepped aside with a bow.

"My apologies, You Grace," he said.

"My sister is the Lady of Winterfell. This is her home. She may go wherever she pleases. You have standing orders to let her pass. Let the other men know my command."

"Yes, Your Grace."

Jon's eyes finally met Sansa's. Though her tone just seconds before had been cool and commanding, she looked suddenly shy and uncertain standing in the passageway. Jon longed to draw her to him and shower her with kisses of reassurance and promises of his love, but instead he squared his shoulders and stepped back from the door.

"Sansa," he said, "What can I do for you? Please, come in." Sansa lowered her eyes and glided into the center of the room as he closed the door behind her. She stood facing away from him, her long red hair falling artfully to her lower back.

"Where have you been?" she asked finally.

"Drinking. In the Godswood," he sounded ridiculous, like a child, and he knew it. Shame filled him as he lowered his gaze to the floor.

"Why?" she asked without turning.

"Because I'm a coward." The truth of his words burned through him. "Sansa —" he began, but his words fled him, driven away by a flood of despair.

She turned toward him finally, with tears streaming down her face, her blue eyes made even brighter by the flush of her cheeks.

"Jon, I'm so sorry, I —"

"No!" he bit out, he words coming more harshly than he had intended, "Don't apologize. I can't bear it if you apologize." She fell silent, chastened by his tone, her tears flowing freely. Her beautiful face, marred with anguish, was like a white hot poker in his chest.

Without thinking he had her in his arms, smoothing her hair, kissing her cheeks. Her name was a litany on his lips, mixing with the salt of her tears. "Sansa…Sansa…my love, I'm so sorry…Sansa, forgive me, Sansa." She wept against his shoulder, her hands fisting in his night shirt.

He meant only to hold her, to soothe her, but as her lips found his, his will gave way as though it had never been there at all. He fed ravenously on her mouth, the taste of her awakening a feral desire in him. His cock strained furiously against his leather pants as he hooked his arms behind her thighs and lifted her, wrapping her legs around him. He carried her swiftly to the table by the window, sweeping aside the maps that lay there, knocking candles to the floor, their flames sputtering against the stones.

Placing her on the table's edge, standing between her splayed thighs, his hands were once against free to roam. They ran down her sides, over the swell of her breasts, then up her legs, pushing her skirts up and out of his way until he could feel the heat of her sex pressed against his engorged manhood, radiating her desire to him through the thin fabric. He was a man possessed.

He knew he had to stop. She arched her back, the soft crush of her body against his as she moaned his name inciting a fire his blood that he felt sure would consume them both.

He had to stop. Her hands left his hair, seeking out his hardness, their tongues and lips still in a desperate tangle. He thrust himself into her hands shamelessly. Her palm pressed flat against him through his pants, feeling the weight of him, and the small purr of desire that escaped her made him feel as if would lose his mind.

He had to stop. The blood was roaring in his ears as her fingers began to undo the laces that kept him from springing free.

"Enough!" he roared, wrenching himself away from her. His hands fisted as he spun himself around, his eyes unseeing, his pulse thundering. He staggered aimlessly around the room, trying to shake himself of his crippling need. Finally, he stood by the fire, his face pillowed on his hand on the mantle.

"We can't do this, Sansa. It's madness," his voice so heavy with despair that it didn't sound like his own.

"We can. You just won't," she said, the tears in her voice mixed now with anger.

"You know that we can't, Sansa. You know the thousand reasons why."

"You died, Jon," she said, her voice full of a quiet fury. "And I may have kept breathing, but I assure you that I died as well — more than once. In this very room, I died over and over again, every night for months on end." Her words cut him to the bone, but he did not turn to her. He could not trust himself. He gripped the mantle tightly, willing himself to stay anchored there.

"You are not my brother," she said as she stood, "and I am no longer your sister. I'm something else now. So are you. I can feel it." She began to cross the room to him, but he held up his hand halting her.

"No. Sansa, please. No more. Whatever else I am or am not, I am the King now and winter is here. There are thousands upon thousands of people who have no idea what is coming for them, and I have to find some way to protect them — to protect us all. We can't do this." She stood silently, and he kept his head bowed to the mantle. He knew that even one look would be his undoing. He wouldn't be able to stop himself from taking her on the cold floor like an animal.

"You should have run with me when I asked you," he said. "We should have gone south. We could have started over where no one knew our names."

"You're right," she said, her voice suddenly ice cold. "I should have gone with you. Because now instead I have to stay here in this hell with you and watch you lead us all over a cliff because of your stupid honor."

With that, she swept out into the passageway and was gone. Jon crumpled to the floor by the fire, watching it until long after the last embers had died.


	7. Petyr

**Chapter 7 | Petyr**

With one foot propped on the table before him, Petyr sank back into the high backed chair before the fire, staring into the flames. In one elegantly manicured hand he held a crystal chalice full of the best sweet southern wine. It shone ruby red in the firelight as he raised it to his lips.

The North was a savage place. He regarded the rough-hewn walls and the bear skin rugs with a quiet disdain. Even his bed — the best that could be procured aside from that of the new King himself — smelled dank and musty. There was no escaping the decay of this place — it was everywhere.

He wouldn't let Sansa rot here, as Cat had. She was born to be a queen. She should be sleeping on satin sheets, not bedding down in a straw-filled bed like an animal.

_Thank the Gods for Southern wine._

He'd brought barrels of it from the Eyrie. It was that or drink the murky swill that these Northern lords had the gall to call wine. It was a place so bleak that not even wine offered comfort.

He thought of Sansa. He was always thinking of Sansa. She was a deep groove in his mind that grew ever deeper as he retraced his steps again and again. Her red hair, her quiet strength, the fierce way that she had set her jaw against him and turned, her skirts circling, swaying around her hips.

She was with Jon now. He was almost certain of it. Her eyes had met his again and again throughout the day, as he lingered nearby, giving her a wide berth, but keeping her in view — but he knew that it wasn't his eyes that she was searching out.

When she'd left him in the Great Hall, he knew that was where she was going next. He'd pushed her toward him, telling her wear he was, pushing away the image of her in Jon's arms. He only had a fortnight, maybe less, before it would be time to leave Winterfell. He had to know where he stood before he could plan the next step.

He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, trying to find the steely, detached center that was his normal resting place. From there he could see every option, every possibility, the moves and the countermoves — the Great Game. But his center alluded him as a deep sickness rose in his chest.

He couldn't picture what might happen in that room without imagining her in Jon's arms, his lips on her skin, his name on her lips. It was only one possibility, but it was the only one he could see. It seared him, coloring his vision, quickening his pulse until he couldn't see anything else. If she offered herself to Jon, could he refuse her again?

Petyr hoped that his words in the Godswood had been enough. The boy certainly seemed prone to self-torture — the honorable so often were — yet he had a hard time imagining any hot-blooded man finding the strength to deny a woman like Sansa twice.

_Let's hope that this White Wolf has ice in his veins._

A knock came at his chamber door. He stood quickly in one graceful motion, not bothering to close his robe over his bare chest as he opened the door.

"Ser Dandrick," he said to the young knight standing in the darkened passageway, "what news?"

"King Snow turned away all guests tonight, save one — his sister, Lady Stark. She stayed for just a few moments. I heard their voices raised near the end, but I couldn't make out their words. She left soon after in tears, my Lord."

"Anything else?" asked Petyr.

"No, my Lord," said Ser Dandrick.

"Thank you, Ser Dandrick. Let me know if there are any other developments."

"Yes, my Lord." Ser Dandrick took a deep bow as Petyr shut the door and then made his way to stand before the fire.

It was better than he'd hoped. A wedge had been driven between Sansa and Jon, he needed now only apply pressure and the two would be split apart. A small smile played on his lips.

He shed his robe, tossing it over the back of the chair. Standing in just his finely tailored leather britches, his feet bare again the wolf skin rug, the heat of the roaring fire prickling against his skin. It would be another long night. He needed to think, to plan, but he was closer to his goal than ever before and the exhilaration of that thought flooded his veins, driving out any thought of sleep.

There was a knock. Ser Dandrick again, surely. He opened the heavy wooden door once more.

"Ser — Sansa…" She stood outside his door in a shapeless linen nightgown, a fur cloak thrown hastily about her shoulders.

"Lord Baelish, I —" her eyes met his, full of anguish, and then swiftly went to the ground. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come." He caught her wrist as she tried to turn.

"You can always come to me, Sansa. Don't you know that by now?" She looked up at him through dark lashes, still wet with tears. He could hardly comprehend her beauty as she stood before him more undone than he'd ever seen her, and somehow more perfect.

"Come in, Sansa." She hesitated, then nodded, stepping into his chambers. Petyr turned quickly and reached for his robe, putting his arms quickly through the sleeves.

"Don't," she said quietly. Petyr reached to tie his sash around his waist.

"Don't what, my love?" He'd barely spoken the words before his breath caught in his throat. His eyes met hers, and in their icy blue depths there was fire.

"Don't cover yourself," she said, stepping toward him slowly.

"Sansa…" She dropped her cloak, the fur pooling behind her. Underneath she was naked under the thin white linen of her night gown. The light from the fire betrayed the outline of every soft curve, every smooth flank. He was instantly and painfully hard, the blood rushing in his ears as desire filled him.

"You were right about my father," she said, her face grave, her eyes unfathomable.

"My love, I shouldn't have —"

"Yes," she said her voice strong through the threat of the tears that pooled in her eyes, "you should have. I needed to hear it. And you were right about him and about Jon — you're right about all of it." Her brimming tears rushed suddenly down her cheeks, causing his chest to constrict painfully, but still he remained frozen. He couldn't trust himself to move. He couldn't trust that this wasn't a dream.

"Did you mean what you said to me in the Godswood?" she asked, closing the distance between them. She stood just inches away, the hem of her night gown a whisper against the tip of his toes. His eyes searched hers, as his answer fell from his lips.

"Yes, my love. Every word."

"Can I trust you?" she asked, hot tears coursing silently down her cheeks. "I've been alone for so long. I have enemies around every corner. I need to know if I can truly trust you, or if this is just another game." Petyr could hardly breathe. He reached up with both hands to cradle her face, hot and wet and perfect against his fingers.

"My love for you is true, Sansa. It's the only fixed point that I have in all of this chaos. I will never betray you. I will never let anyone hurt you again. I swear it, my love." His words were steeped in his deepest truth, but they poured from him quickly and without reservation. A small sob escaped her as she melted into his touch.

He took her mouth hesitantly, gently savoring her heated lips with the slightest sweep of his tongue —but this time was different. Instead of remaining cold and impassive as he took his small liberties, Sansa sank into the kiss, her lips yielding deliciously to his. He drew her to him, the soft crush of her breasts pressed against his chest as his robe parted, the burgeoning thickness of his manhood against her hip.

He cupped the nape of her neck, holding her close as he fed reverently on her lips, his other hand gripping her hip, flexing his fingers almost unconsciously against her warm flesh. To his almost mad delight, her hands sought out his exposed chest, raking her fingers through the salt-and-pepper smattering of his chest hair, running down across the taught muscles of his stomach, his sash falling away and his robe parting under her touch.

He was old enough to be her father, but he was a disciplined man, and unlike many older lords who gave themselves over to food and drink, Petyr still had the chiseled form of his youth. Her hands roamed the hard slabs of his flesh hungrily, her head tilting back as he licked and nibbled his way down the elegant column of her neck.

"Petyr…" she sighed and his heart nearly stopped. She had used his name so seldom, and not once since he'd left her with the Bolton's. To hear it now on her lips, full of pleasure and surrender, shattered him utterly. She ran both palms flat up his stomach, his chest, and then finally up over his shoulders, pushing his robe off of him and onto the floor.

As soon as his arms were free, and with desire thundering through him, he swept her up into his arms, carrying her swiftly to the wolf skin rug in front of the fire. He lowered her slowly onto the soft bed of the fur, reaching with one hand to pull a pillow off of a nearby chair for her head.

She curled into him as he settled beside her, his body partially covering hers. He wanted nothing more than to take her, but the suddenness of her arrival, the way that she had so completely changed in just a few hours time had him on edge, even the through the fog of his need for her. He knew that if he gave into the fantasy now that he could be denying himself the reality of having her like this, so warm and soft in his arms. He had to tread lightly.

He slowed his kisses and reared up over her so that he could see her face. He smoothed back her hair, his thumbs wiping her tears from her cheeks.

Smiling down at her, he raised one eyebrow ever so slightly. "What do you want, Sansa?" he asked.

With one hand tangled in his hair, she drew his lips to hers. Summoning all of his strength he placed his index finger over her pink lips just before they reach his and he chuckled, hoping that she couldn't hear the strain in his voice.

"No, my love," he said knowingly, the tip of his nose lightly nuzzling hers. "That's not what you came here for. You're going to tell me what you want, and then afterward, if you still want me to kiss you, I will kiss any part of you that you like until well after the sun comes up. But first, you talk. What do you want?"

Her eyes cooled in that icy northern way that set a fire in his blood. She regarded him for a moment, seeming to struggle with something. He waited quietly until the uncertainty in her eyes seemed to resolve itself.

"I want The North," she said with a note of the ferocity he'd heard up on the battlements playing along the edges of her words, "and The Vale. I want The Iron Islands and The Westerlands and The Riverlands. I want the Storm Lands and The Reach. I want them all, all Seven Kingdoms. Will you give them to me?"

His chest swelled at her words, imagining himself giving her all that she wanted, seated on the Iron Throne with her by his side. But still he restrained himself.

"And what changed your mind?" he asked, running one hand down her side from the soft swell of her breast to the delicious curve of her hip. He knew the answer, but he needed to know her game.

Her hand rose to his face, lightly tracing the hard angle of his jaw, her eyes, fixed on his, were full of emotion. "It was what you said to me in the Godswood. And what you said to me this morning. I want to be safe. I want my home back. I want my enemies to die screaming. And I want to be Queen."

"And me?" asked Petyr his voice tinged with sadness. Sansa's eyes locked with his, as her hand moved from his face to cover his hand that still rested on her hip. She pushed it down the smooth flank of her thigh, her hand gliding over his until it caught the hem of her night gown. Her thighs parted as she drew his hand back upward her naked sex.

"Touch me, and feel how much I want you." Blinding desire crashed through him as he felt the heat of her. With their eyes still locked, he gently parted her folds, his middle finger dipping down to the source of her wetness. Her sex was drenched, and he could feel her tight entrance quiver as he gently traced it.

"Sansa," he breathed. She was searingly hot and impossibly soft and the slick, wet evidence of her desire coated his fingertips. Every last reservation was gone. He was lost to her. Whatever came next, he didn't care. The only thing that mattered in the world was this moment. And in this moment, he needed to see her come.

Carefully he spread her wetness upward, his fingers gliding through her folds, deliberately avoiding the swollen bundle of her clit. I small mewling sound escaped her, and she angled her lips toward him in a silent plea, but Petyr would not break their gaze to kiss her. He thrust his free hand into the hair at the nape of her neck securing her in place.

His wicked fingers continued to tease her as she gasped and squirmed beneath him. Her eyes were wild now with their silent plea. He lowered his lips to her hair, his tongue gently tracing the shell of her ear, creating gooseflesh that he could feel on her sweet inner thighs.

"I'm going to make you come, Sansa," he whispered roughly in her ear, his voice thick with desire. "You're going to give yourself over to me and let me make you come. And when I'm finished, I'm going to make you come again. And then again. Understood?"

Sansa nodded weakly, as a sheen of perspiration appeared on her skin, her face radiant in the firelight. Petyr's fingers traced ever smaller circles around her clit until his fingertips finally danced across it causing Sansa to moan and throw her head back against the pillow. Her hips angled upwards towards his fingers begging for more. Petyr obliged her, circling with a firm and building rhythm.

"Please…" Sansa let out a mindless gasp as her nipples hardened into aching points beneath her nightgown. Petyr caught one in his mouth, sucking her between his lips creating a wet circle of fabric that clung to her nipple. He flicked his tongue over it as he looked up at her. She was lost to her pleasure, and so very close.

"Look at me, Sansa," he commanded, his voice full of an almost violent passion, "I need to see your eyes when you come." She opened them and that sight alone nearly slew him. Her hooded eyes were a storm of desire and emotion. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Quickening his pace, and with a few more artful flicks of his tongue across her breast she came. As she did he thrust two fingers deep inside of her, the hot velvet walls of her sex trembling and tightening around him like a vice.

"Petyr!" she cried out, and his heart swelled with an exultant joy.

In one graceful movement he sat back on his knees and dragged her into a straddling position across his lap, her eyes still dazed. She was so soft and pliable in his arms as she quivered with the small aftershocks of her pleasure. He kissed her deeply, with long, soft strokes of his tongue.

"My love," he whispered against her lips. He reached behind her searching out the hem of her nightgown and lifted it slowly over her head. He thought that she might stop him but she languidly lifted her arms making his work easier.

The first view of her naked body was the closest thing to a spiritual experience that he'd ever felt. His eyes devoured every inch of her. Her pale and perfect breasts, the soft, flat expanse of her stomach, the red tuft of hair that just hid the lips of her sex from his view — every inch of her was exquisite.

Reverently, he lowered his lips to her pink nipple alternating between suck it and flicking it with his tongue. One hand captured her other nipple rolling it deftly between his fingers. He was rewarded with a deep moan from Sansa as she arched her back to give him greater access.

He was thrilled by her responsiveness. She was every fantasy he'd ever had made flesh. She was a goddess in his arms, and she was moaning his name, every movement of her body a silent, yet unsubtle plea for more.

He switched his mouth to her other nipple, giving it the same attention as his other hand teased the other, still wet from his tongue. Sansa undulated in his lap, her sex unable to find the friction she was looking for as she straddled his splayed thighs. He could feel the desire mounting in her, and it caused his cock to swell almost painfully now, trapped inside his pants.

As if reading his mind, Sansa's hands reached for the laces, fumbling clumsily, clearly disoriented by the unrelenting pleasure of Petyr's mouth on her breasts. He didn't stop his ministrations, letting her struggle, drawing out the moment.

At the very last second before his cock would be freed into her hands, Petyr shifted forward moving her onto her back, his hand pillowing her head against the floor. He reared up over her, her thighs still spread over his as he knelt between her legs. He sat back on his heels and looked down at her cleft, finally spread before him. Her lips, dripping with her desire, were parted like the petals of a flower, and the rich, womanly smell of her filled his nose, making his mouth water.

"Gods, you are so beautiful, Sansa," he murmured to her, transfixed by the beauty of her most intimate parts.

Gently he ran the fingers of one hand between her sensitive folds as the other thrust itself into his pants finally retrieving his cock. It was thicker and darker than he had ever seen it. It curved upward almost harshly, bobbing under its own weight. He fisted it roughly, pumping his cock as his other hand sought out her clit, teasing it slowly.

Sansa's hooded eyes were trained on him as he stroked himself filled with naked lust, her hips mindlessly thrusting against his fingers.

"Petyr, let me touch you." Her voice was a plea, and brought a fresh rush of pre-cum from his cock, which shown lewdly in the firelight as he pleasured himself.

"Not yet, my love," he replied through gritted teeth. "I need you to come again."

With that Petyr moved off his heels, lowering his head down between her slick, parted thighs. His mouth sealed over her cleft as his tongue dragged upwards through her folds.

"Petyr…" her serrated cry and her hands that fisted now in his hair drove him onward. She bucked her hips shamelessly, her hands directing his head exactly where she wanted him to go — and he was all too happy to oblige her. The taste of her was divine and he ate at her quivering sex like a man possessed.

Without pausing, he gently pushed one finger inside of her and then another, her hot, slick walls clinging to him as they thrust inside of her. Expertly, he sought out the small mound deep inside her, applying a rhythmic pressure as his tongue lapped her clit.

Sansa cried out incoherently, her screams surely echoing down the passageway outside, but Petyr didn't care. He drove onward as she came over and over again until her hands in his hair finally pulled almost painfully at him, begging him to stop.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Petyr looked up at Sansa filled with a primal masculine triumph. Her skin was flushed, a small bead of sweat dripping down between her breasts. Her fingers reached out to him wordlessly, her eyes unseeing, still overwhelmed.

Petyr slid up beside her, kicking off his pants. He drew her to him, pulling her back up against his chest, pillowing her head on his bicep and wrapping his arms around her. His hands skimmed her breasts and stomach, and she sighed wiggling back against him trying to get closer. His still painfully erect cock settled in the delicious seam of her ass.

"You are so exquisite, my love," he murmured against her neck as he brushed her hair away giving him greater access. "So beautiful."

Sansa made a deep sound that was almost a purr and slowly rolled her hips back against his causing his cock to pulse against her. Reaching one hand up to his cheek, she looked over her shoulder until their eyes could meet.

"Make love to me, Petyr," she said, her voice full of emotion, "Please. I need to feel you." Petyr could scarcely breathe. To hear her say those words —

"Are you sure, my love?" he asked her, gently cradling her face as she cradled his. He brushed his lips softly against hers then pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "There's no rush."

"Please," she said again, her voice a whisper against his skin.

Petyr was helpless to refuse. He reached down and guided his cock between her thighs as she spread herself for him. They both gasped as his manhood found the wetness of her core, gliding between her slick folds. With a trembling hand he notched the head of his cock into the entrance of her sex, his lips seeking out hers. Then slowly he thrust himself up into her.

A rough sound escaped him. Being inside of her was almost more pleasure than he could bear. She rippled maddeningly around him, her hips grinding down against his. He knew he wouldn't last long. With one hand he captured her nipple while the other dove between her thighs, roughly circling her clit.

"You are my queen, Sansa," he growled roughly against the pale skin of her throat as she threw her head back against his shoulder. "I will give you The North. I will give you the Seven Kingdoms. I will give you anything you desire. It's all yours as I am yours, I swear it."

Sansa came with a scream, her sex clamping down on him causing him to spiral over the edge after her. He pulled out of her swiftly and with one pump of his cock spilled his seed against her thighs. He lay panting against her shoulder for one long silent minute listening to Sansa's ragged breathing begin to slow.

With one hand he groped behind himself on the cold stone floor until he found his robe. Gently, he used it to wipe away the slickness between her thighs, and then quickly wiped his own cock before tossing it away.

Sansa moaned in protest as he stood, but he returned quickly with the thick fur blanket from the bed. Tossing it over her, he laid back down beside her and pulled her back against his chest. He brushed the hair away from her neck so he could see her face and pressed a line of soft kisses across her shoulder.

Her eyes were closed, but she nestled back into his chest with a small sound of contentment. Within seconds her breathing slowed and she was asleep.

Petyr stayed awake for hours watching her sleep in his arms, dreaming of the wars to come.

 


	8. Sansa

**Chapter 8 | Sansa**

Sansa stood before the long mirror in her dressing room wearing only her linen nightgown. She used to stare at herself in this very mirror for long, endless hours when she was a girl, brushing her red hair until it shone like fine spun silk. She'd been such a silly girl.

But now her own reflection frightened her. She rarely looked at herself, and when she did she never met her own gaze. Looking at herself in a mirror made her feel like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, like she was far outside of her own body looking down.

Her eyes were hers, but they weren't hers. Her body, a woman's body now, was also somehow foreign. She had a vague fear that her reflection was now somehow separate from her. At night sometimes she would dream that it was moving without her — not breathing when she breathed, not blinking as she blinked.

She had gotten that same sensation of falling when she was waiting for Ramsay in his chambers. The floor would give way beneath her when she heard his boots deliberately stalking toward the door. She would fall and fall as he circled her slowly, gasp for air as he touched her. And on the good nights a great wind would take her before the pain came, and she would float outside of herself, watching the as red welts appeared on her skin.

Ramsay had loved how easily her pale skin flowered with bruises. He told her that she made him feel like a great painter. Her body was his favorite canvas.

It seemed impossible to her now as she looked at her reflection that those bruises had disappeared. She still felt them. When Ramsay had painted them onto her, they'd become a part of her. She wasn't sure who she was now that they were gone.

She regarded her reflection in the mirror stoically. Her face was flushed from the silent tears that still fell at intervals from her eyes, but there was nothing to be done for it. And on this night her immense vulnerability was probably her greatest strength. She let her tears flow.

Jon was lost to her. Of that she was certain. His honor would keep them apart. His honor would compel him to marry another, and his honor would marry her off as well. His honor would protect The North against every threat — including the threat of himself.

And even if she could convince him to lay down his honor, that would keep them apart as well. It would cut him too deeply, and not even the Red Woman would be able to bring back the part of Jon that would be lost. To have him would be to kill him. She could see that now.

Jon was right. They should have gone south, but she'd insisted on Winterfell. They'd taken it back together. But now she was home behind the great walls that she loved so dearly, and she was with her own flesh and blood once more — so how was it that she was more powerless and alone than when she'd started?

She was so weary. She wanted to throw herself on the floor and weep for Jon and weep for herself until she had nothing left, but there was no time for that now. She had the rest of her life to weep for Jon — she had no doubt that she would — but Little Finger would be leaving with the Knights of the Vale in less than a fortnight. She needed to act.

She needed power — enough to be safe, enough to have some control. She'd spent so much time in close proximity to power, she'd studied it even as she'd suffered at its hand. But she'd never had any for herself, and she knew how hard it was to come by, especially for a woman. After all, though Jon was a bastard it was his duty to lead and hers to be sold like cattle to the highest bidder. Even a true born lady of a great house had no real option but to bow to her lot.

But Sansa had an option.

" _Everyone wants something. When you know what a man wants you know who he is, and how to move him."_

The words Little Finger spoke to her back in the Eyrie echoed in her mind as she grabbed her wolf skin cloak. She knew what he wanted, at least. She may not have had the power to move anything herself, but if she could move him she could move the Seven Kingdoms.

It was no real plan. There wasn't any shape to it, but she would worry about that later. First, she needed to see if she could move him.

Was she wrong about what he wanted? Was his declaration of love just another chess move? Could she convince a man that she both feared and despised that she could fall in love with him? He was a dangerous man, and more than that, he was the one who taught her how to play the game. Did she have any true hope of out maneuvering him?

There was only one way to know for sure. She was stepping into deep waters now. She wrapped the cloak around her shoulders.

She considered herself briefly in the mirror once more before turning to the door. Her cheeks were a light shade of crimson, her eyes vulnerable and glistening, the pink discs of her nipples were visible through her night gown, and between her thighs she still felt the heat and slickness from her encounter with Jon. She hoped it would be enough.

* * *

Sansa woke from a deep and dreamless sleep still wrapped in furs and in Petyr's strong arms. The first light of morning was just creeping through the windows and the fire had burned itself down to a few sputtering embers. There was a chill in the air, but Petyr's body warmed her deliciously — only her face was cold.

The night had not gone as she expected. She didn't quite know what she expected, but she hadn't expected… _that_.

She hadn't expected that he would believe her so readily. Petyr had been right — when you know what a man wants, you can move him. And in giving herself to him, he seemed moved to near madness, all of his cold calculation evaporating like morning mist in the heat of his desire.

And she certainly hadn't expected how it would feel to give herself to him. He wasn't Jon. He would never be Jon. And despite the dark attraction that she'd always felt toward him, she knew him for the snake that he was. She'd hoped that after it started she would float outside of her body like she had during all those nights with Ramsay — but she hadn't.

Petyr's expert touch, his wicked tongue, his cock, the rough sound of his voice in her ear speaking heated words of praise and love — _"So beautiful…I need to see you come, Sansa." —_ all of it had overwhelmed her senses and grounded her deeply inside of her body. She felt present in her skin. She felt possessed of herself.

And the way that he'd held her, his hands pillowing her head, skimming over her body reverently, the way he'd kissed her like she was the most precious thing in the world to him — it filled a hole inside Sansa that she hadn't even really known was there. She luxuriated in his attentions and basked in the warmth of his joy as he'd made love to her.

Aside from her brief encounters with Jon, all that she'd ever known from a man's touch was fear and pain. But in Petyr's arms she felt treasured and protected. And it felt…good.

She knew she had to tread lightly. The game had only just begun, and there was not a more cunning opponent in all of the Seven Kingdoms than Petyr. She couldn't let the pleasure cloud her judgement if she wanted to keep the upper hand.

Sansa turned languidly in Petyr's arms and buried her nose in his chest hair, warming it against his skin. She felt his arms tighten around her and his hand stroking the back of her head gently.

"Good morning, my love," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She peeked up at him, still blinking the sleep from her eyes, and was surprised to find him awake and alert.

"Good morning," she said tilting her head back to his receive kiss. It was sweet and slow and caused Sansa's pulse to quicken through the fog of sleep.

"Did you sleep?" she asked him as his kisses strayed to her jaw, making their way lazily to the spot behind her ear that made her shiver.

"Only a little," he said against her skin, as his tongue found its destination causing her sigh in his arms. "I didn't want to sleep. I was afraid I'd wake up and it would all have been a dream."

"Mmmm, I'm pretty sure it was a dream," she purred with a smile as she nuzzled herself deeper into his arms. He pulled back to seek out her eyes, seeming almost surprised at her answer. She pushed away her fears and let her face radiate only the peace and tenderness that blossomed under his touch. It was almost too easy.

Sansa gazed up at him, one hand tangled in his chest hair, and the other reaching up to smooth a lock of hair that fell across his forehead. As he regarded her she could see the hunger growing in his eyes that echoed in her core.

Slowly he shifted his weight over her, tucking her under him, cradling her head with one hand as the other skimmed her thigh. Without breaking her gaze, he moved to kiss her.

"Wait," Sansa said through the fog of her own growing desire. Petyr looked down at her questioningly. "You can't distract me again. We need to talk."

"About?" he asked, cocking one eyebrow.

"About us. About this," said Sansa.

"I'm yours. Everything else is just logistics. I'll deal with those later, but right now I'm going to kiss you."

"No," said Sansa pushing him off of her with a firm, but playful shove. "I have conditions." Petyr rolled to his side and propped himself up on his elbow, one hand absently playing with a strand of her hair as she turned toward him. Everything about him was calm and smiling, but behind his eyes she saw something dark begin to coil.

This was it. There was clearly still doubt in him and she needed to eradicate it. She would need to plot her course carefully. She bought time by catching his hand with hers and lightly kissing his knuckles.

"If we're going to have a negotiation, you should at least let me put on some pants," he said lightly, but she thought she could hear a tinge of apprehension in his voice.

"Oh, my dear Lord Baelish," she said, looking up at him, "this is not a negotiation."

"Isn't it?" he asked.

"No. There are things that I need from you in order to feel safe, and they are all non-negotiable." Sansa said, resting her hand against his chest.

"Tell me," he said, setting his jaw.

"First, I want us to be partners. What you said a minute ago about handling all of the logistics — that can't be how it is between us. We'll handle it together. We'll plan together. I'm not going to give up my power to you in the hopes that I'll find it somewhere else. I've done that before, and I won't do it again."

Petyr's eyes flashed with something unfathomable as she spoke, but he raised her hand to his lips, kissing the back softly.

"I know I have a lot to learn," she continued, "and I'll take your lead, and as long as you never give me cause not to, I will trust you, but you can't cut me out. You can't make decisions without telling me. We do this together or we don't do it at all."

"Done," he said, with a smile. "All I want is for you to be by my side in all things. What else?"

"Jon," she said, "You can't hurt him. Jon is safe no matter what. He's all the family that I have left in this world, and I won't have him harmed. "

"Of course, my love," he replied, "of course." He caressed the side of her face gently, but for a brief instant she swore she something sinister flash in his eyes, but it passed before she could even be sure it was there. She turned her face into his touch, kissing his palm.

"I have one more condition," she said shyly, "but I don't know if you're going to like it." Petyr raised an eyebrow at her. Sansa caught her lower lip between her teeth and did her best to look embarrassed.

"Tell me," he said as she looked away. He caught her chin in his fingers and slowly turned her face to his until their eyes met. "I'm far more inclined to give you what you want than you seem to know, Sansa."

Sansa steeled herself for what she was about to say, the weight of her words bringing a natural color to her cheeks that she didn't have to fake. Casting her eyes down, she took a deep breath.

"I don't want you to be with anyone else," she said rushing forward through her anxiety. "I know that you've probably been with lots of other women, but if we're going to be together this way I only want you to be with me. I couldn't stand the thought of it and — " her voice broke as her tears threatened to fall. "Last night was the first time I — I mean, besides Ramsay, but — "

In one swift movement, Petyr had her under him once more, his hands on either side of her face as he kissed her deeply.

"Never, my love," he said against her lips as he kissed her. "There will never be anyone else. I swear it."

Sansa had played it perfectly, but the triumph that filled her chest was quickly displaced by something else as she felt the thickening weight of Petyr's manhood against her stomach. Petyr settled between her legs, hitching one of her thighs up over his hip as he sought her out. A rough moan escaped him as his fingertips gently rimmed her cleft.

"Sansa, my love, you're still so wet." She moaned lushly against his kiss and shifted her hips to meet his. It was all the invitation that he needed. He guided his cock toward her entrance, sliding the thick head through her soft, slick folds.

"Yes," Sansa sighed, her head tossing to the side in her pleasure as he kissed her neck and entered her with one expert roll of his hips.

The sun was peeking over the treetops before he was done with her.


	9. Jon

**Chapter 9 | Jon**

Once Jon knew what dying felt like, he realized that he had done it before. When he awoke on that table in Castle Black gasping, his body a foreign thing, his heart thundering with a savage rage, the world forever altered, he felt a macabre familiarity in his bones. His father…Robb…Ygritte. He had died with each of them, and the next morning had arisen with this exact pain in his chest — this dread, this hatred, this hopelessness.

Brave men say that they don't fear death. Jon only feared the death that wasn't true — a death like the one that took him when Sansa had left him the night before, her voice so full of venom. He couldn't even say that he'd lost her, as she was never his to have, but it cut him all the same.

Jon stood before the fire, the ache in his chest feeling like it would rend him in two. He'd dressed himself quickly, denying the services of the young lad Littlefinger had sent. He wouldn't be dressed like a child. He was a King, but he was still his own man. He clenched his fist upon the mantle.

It was time to be both a man and a King. He strode to the door, opening it to find two guards posted outside.

"Find Ser Davos," he said to one whom he didn't recognize. "Tell him that I'd like to speak to him in my study."

The guard bowed his assent. "Yes, Your Grace."

Jon strode down the passageway to the room that he'd seldom entered as a boy. It was where his father met with visiting lords to discuss matters of state. The room was lined with maps and books and tapestries that dated back hundreds of years, showing the great works of the Stark Lords who had come before. It was not a room for children.

_You can enter this room when you are a man grown._

His father's words came back to him now as he stood before the door. He was certainly a man now. He only hoped that he could be a man worthy of being called his father's son. He bowed his head in a silent plea for strength and wisdom — though he knew not to whom he was lifting that prayer — and opened the door.

Despite having had it aired out the day before, the room had the musty smell of old books and parchments mingled with the charred smell of the many great fires that had roared in the towering fireplace well into the night. The rich tapestries that once covered the walls had been torn down and likely burned by the Bolton's men, but the room was otherwise much as he remembered it from the glimpses he'd caught through the door as a boy.

It was an impressively masculine space. The fireplace stood as the centerpiece of the room, adorned with intricate stone work. On either side were carved two towering weir trees, their faces impassive, their wild branches reaching up to the ceiling in a tangle. Between them on the mantle a snarling dire wolf's head bared its teeth menacingly down at the sitting area clustered near the fire consisting of deep, high backed, leather chairs and an oversized leather chaise.

In the center of the room was a wide table surrounded by twelve chairs, a map of Westeros inlaid in the center. The chair at the head, his father's seat was larger than the rest and also done in dark leather with the Stark sigil emblazoned on the back. On the opposite site of the room was his father's desk, oversized and imposing in dark wood.

Jon entered the room reverently, shutting the door behind him. He only had a moment to get his bearings. Today would not be a repeat of the day before. He would rise to this occasion. He would rule.

He circled his father's desk — his desk now — skimming one hand along the fine wood work. He could still see his father sitting at this desk, bent over with quill and parchment, as he'd peeked in from the hallway. His heart constricted painfully in his chest at the memory, but he fought back the tears that threatened to rise with an icy will.

Jon pulled out the heavy chair and sat. He surveyed the room. Everything looked smaller than he remembered, and yet it still held the same power for him that it did when he was a boy. This was a room where great men talked about important things. This was the room from which his father ruled The North and from which Robb was to rule after him. And if not Robb, gods forbid, then Bran or Rickon. But not Jon. Never Jon.

Jon closed his eyes against the image of Rickon laying in the snow as his blood pooled around him, his eyes looking up at Jon's in pain and terror as the life left him. Rickon was dead. Robb was dead. Bran was likely dead as well. And now here he was, seated in his father's chair, a true lord of Winterfell. It was the only thing that he'd ever wanted, but the cost —

Jon was jarred from his thoughts by a knock at the door. He straightened himself, rubbing one hand roughly across his face trying to clear the dark thoughts from his mind.

"Enter," he called out. The door opened and Ser Davos strode into the room.

"You asked for me, Your Grace?" he said.

"Yes, Ser Davos," Jon replied standing, "close the door behind you. I'd like to have a word."

Jon moved to the seat at the head of the table and motioned for Ser Davos to sit in the chair to his right.

"How are you today, Your Grace?" asked Ser Davos settling in his chair, "I didn't get a chance to speak with you yesterday." His tone was casual, but his eyes were filled with concern.

Jon ignored the question, but acknowledged it with a nod and a wry smile. Ser Davos was a good man, a kind man — and he was a man who missed little.

"Jon," he replied instead. "When we're alone, call me Jon."

"Alright," said Ser Davos, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Good," replied Jon, settling back into the high-backed chair. He looked around the room slowly and then back to Ser Davos who was regarding him expectantly.

"It feels odd being in this room, sitting in my father's chair," Jon said finally, his fingers flexing unconsciously into the wide leather arms. "This chair was never supposed to be mine. It was supposed to be Robb's, and he was better suited for it in every way."

"I don't know how to rule," he said as Ser Davos leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his eyes focused on him intently. "Leading men is different than ruling, and even that I fucked up. But now I am King and winter is here, and tens of thousands of lives depend on my ability to become a ruler strong enough and wise enough to lead The North through the darkness that is yet to come."

"I would name you Hand of the King, Ser Davos. I need you. I need your wisdom, your guidance, and above all, your honesty. If I'm going to have a prayer of getting this right I need strong, honorable men around me to challenge me and hold me accountable. I can think of no stronger or more honorable man than you, Ser Davos."

"Your Gr — Jon, I —" Ser Davos started to move from his chair, but Jon's hand on his arm stopped him.

"Please, Ser Davos. Don't kneel," he said earnestly, "Just say yes. Tell me that you'll help me." Ser Davos regarded him for a long moment, his eyes filled with warmth and pride in a way that reminded him of his father.

"Yes, Jon," he said finally, emotion heavy in his voice, "I will help you. It would be an honor."

"Thank you, Ser Davos," Jon said his gratitude beaming on his face, "I know that your trust was broken profoundly by the king that you served before, but I swear to you that, with your help, I will be a king worthy of your loyalty and friendship." Ser Davos nodded gravely, and placed his hand over Jon's arm, squeezing it.

"Of that, I have no doubt," he replied.

Another knock came at the door. Ser Davos rose to answer it.

"Lady Sansa," he said warmly as he opened the door. "You're looking well this morning. Please, come in."

Jon's heart leapt into his throat as Sansa entered. To say she looked well was a hideous understatement. She greeted Ser Davos with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, but despite her somber countenance, every inch of her was glowing. When she'd left him the night before she had been the most exquisite thing he'd ever seen, but the woman that stood before him now was dazzling in a way that made his head swim and his mouth go dry.

It was hard for Jon to put his finger on the change. She was wearing a deep blue gown that perfectly set off her lustrous red hair, and her skin glowed like flawless alabaster in the morning light that filtered through the window. Her eyes were brighter, and her lips were full and crimson like a fresh, plump strawberry against the cream of her skin. She was breathtaking.

_How is this possible? The gods must be testing me…_

Jon did his best to steel himself against the growing longing in his chest and rose to greet her.

"Good morning, Sansa," he said, hoping that she couldn't see the wild desire in his eyes. She nodded demurely in reply.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," she said hesitantly, "but I thought you should know that Lady Brienne has returned."

"You're never interrupting. Please, sit. Tell me," he said motioning to the chair opposite Ser Davos. She nodded her assent and made her way to the chair, her skirts swaying around her hips as she walked. Jon's chest ached as her eyes darted from Ser Davos to the table to the ground and back again. He couldn't tear his eyes from her, but she could barely bring herself to look at him.

He hated himself for making her feel this way, and longed for the easy comfort that had existed between them. There had to be a way to fix this. He couldn't have her the way that he so desperately wanted her, but he couldn't bear to lose her altogether. Could they find a way back to each other after all that had happened? He wasn't sure, but he knew that he had to try.

"What news, Sansa?" he asked gently. Her eyes finally met his, and he offered a small smile. Sadness flashed behind her eyes, but she didn't look away.

"Jamie Lannister has taken Riverrun," she said gravely, "My Uncle Edmure is still a captive, and the Blackfish is dead." Sansa's gaze was steely, but Jon could see the storm of emotions brewing within her.

"I'm sorry, Sansa," he said, covering her hand briefly with his. "And Lady Brienne?"

"She's unharmed, but her sense of honor has been deeply wounded by her failure, though I'm not sure what hope she had of success. It was a desperate plan on my part — a bad plan. It was no plan at all." Sansa replied ruefully looking down at her hands.

"It was better than any other plan that we had," said Jon. "We're all here because of you, Sansa. I haven't forgotten that and neither should you." She smiled weakly at him, her eyes still so full of sorrow. He wished that he could pull her into his lap and kiss her, comfort her, do anything to keep her from looking that way. Instead he turned to Ser Davos.

"I'd like to convene my small council, and now seems as good a time as any. Aggression by the Lannisters against a great house and against my sister's kin can't be borne. Can you summon Tormund and Lord Baelish? I'd like a moment to speak with my sister before we begin."

Ser Davos nodded. "Of course, Your Grace," he said, rising.

"And Ser Davos," said Jon, "summon Lady Brienne, if she's not too weary from traveling. She deserves a seat at this table, as well." Ser Davos nodded and closed the door behind him.

They were alone. Jon tried to gather himself as best he could, though the heat of his longing for her felt like a palpable presence in the room.

"I've named Ser Davos as my Hand," he said. Sansa's eyes met his, with a small smile.

"He's a good choice." Her tone was sincere, but her eyes showed her apprehension.

"Sansa, I need you as well. I need you by my side. I need your advice, and I need your support," he said fighting against the lump that rose in his throat. "I'm sorry that I've fucked things up between us so badly. I just hope you can forgive me, because I can't do this without you."

"Jon, please don't apologize," she said reaching for his hand. "I should be the one apologizing. The way I spoke to you last night —" her voice caught in her throat.

"What if neither of us apologizes?" asked Jon. He smiled a sad smile at her and shifted his hand to lace his fingers though hers.

"What if we just agree to be 'us' again? We've been through so much, and I'm just so happy to have you back. It's been so long since I've been around family, and you are truly the most beautiful, strong, intelligent woman that I've ever known. I just — I don't know, I lost my head. But I'm still your brother, and I still want nothing more than to protect you and keep you safe. We're stronger together than we are apart. Do you think you can trust me again?"

"Jon," she said, a tumult of emotion on her face, "I've never once stopped trusting you. And you will never lose me. I swear it."

Jon pulled her hand up to his lips and kissed each of her knuckles softly. It was far more of an indulgence than he ever intended to allow himself, and yet it was so much less than the total ravishing that every bone in his body was yearning to visit upon her. Her eyes softened immeasurably as he kissed her hand, their eyes locked. When he finished he lowered her hand back to the table, but neither of them let go. Jon's pulse quickened.

"I'm surprised that you invited Lord Baelish to sit on your small council," said Sansa, eyeing him conspiratorially.

"I'm not sure that I have much choice in the matter," he said. "Could I have really left him out?"

"Probably not," said Sansa, her voice growing more serious. "I'm sorry that you are married to him now because of me."

"We wouldn't be here if it weren't for him," said Jon, running his thumb possessively over the back of Sansa's hand. She nodded.

"A necessary evil," she said with bitterness dripping from her words. "There are far more of those in the world than I would have imagined."

"Can we trust him?"

"For now, I think," she replied. "Our interests are enough aligned that I doubt he'll make any rash moves — at least not yet."

"And what are his interests? What is it that he wants?" Sansa sighed deeply.

"Everything," she said finally. "He wants everything."

"Including you?"

The question hung between them for a long moment. Sansa seemed to be considering her answer carefully.

"If it serves his ends," she said finally.

"And does it?" he asked, squeezing her hand, a surge of fierce protectiveness filling him.

"I can't be sure. There's never any way to be sure with Lord Baelish."

Jon leaned forward, bringing his free hand to cover the back of hers, so that her delicate, snow white fingers were trapped between both of his hands.

"I want you to stay away from him, Sansa," he said, his voice low and fierce. "He's a dangerous man."

"He is," she replied gravely, "but I know how to handle him, Jon. I'll be careful, I promise. And he'll be gone in a fortnight."

Jon was about to protest, when Tormund barreled through the door, not bothering to knock. Jon dropped Sansa's hand quickly and turned to greet him.

"The King in the North!" exclaimed Tormund jovially as he entered, and then a bit more gently, "Lady Sansa." Jon smiled at him and motioned to the seat next to Sansa.

"Thank you for coming, Tormund," said Jon as Tomund sank roughly into his chair. "I'm calling together my small council, and I need a representative from the Free Folk. Can I count on you?"

"Aye," said Tormund, "Just don't go tryin' to make me a Lord of anything."

Jon chuckled as Ser Davos reappeared.

"Lady Brienne was already asleep in her chambers," said Ser Davos as he took his seat. "Podrick said that they had barely stopped for the last two days of their journey. I thought it best to let her sleep." Jon nodded his approval.

"And Lord Baelish?" asked Jon.

"He should be here shortly, Your Grace."

"Not surprised he's late," said Tormund with a bawdy grin. "I heard he was up most of the night giving it to some servant girl or other in his chambers. They say she was quite the screamer."

A dark blush rose to Sansa's cheeks as she looked down at the table, the rise of color stirring something deep in Jon.

"A servant girl?" Ser Davos mused, "That's not what I would have pictured. He doesn't seem like the kind of man who deigns to fuck below his station."

Sansa looked like she wanted to fall through the floor. She wasn't usually so delicate, but Jon could sense her growing discomfort. He longed to hold her hand in his again.

"That's enough," said Jon. "Lord Baelish's private affairs are none of our concern."

Ser Davos nodded gravely. Tormund's eyes still sparkled, though he held his tongue.

Petyr Baelish appeared suddenly in the doorway, though by his courtly demeanor he didn't appear to have heard their conversation. Jon was relieved.

"Your Grace," he said with a deep bow, "Lady Sansa, Ser Davos, Tormund — I apologize for being late. I just received some truly disturbing news from King's Landing."

"It's been that kind of morning," said Jon. "Come in, Lord Baelish, and take a seat." Littlefinger glided into the room and took his place beside Ser Davos.

"Ah, then you've heard the word from Riverrun already," he said folding himself gracefully into his chair.

"I have," said Jon, "though I'm curious to know how you have."

"A little bird told me," he said, his eyes straying to Sansa. Sansa looked down at her hands. It would be difficult for any man to not look at Sansa, but there was something about Littlefinger's gaze that rankled Jon. "I have ears everywhere, Your Grace," he said, finally meeting his eyes.

"So I've heard," he replied, doing his best swallow the disgust he always felt when Littlefinger was near. "What news from the Capital?"

"I'm afraid the situation is very grave indeed, Your Grace," said Littlefinger, "Cersei Lannister was to be tried in the Great Sept for her crimes against the gods and the realm, but she used wildfire to destroy the Sept instead, killing everyone inside — the High Sparrow, the majority of the Faith Militant, Queen Margaery, and countless Lords and Ladies of the realm."

"Gods," gasped Sansa.

"I'm sorry, my lady," said Littlefinger, "I know that you and Queen Margaery had been friends."

Jon looked at Sansa, his concern mingled with the dark resentment that Littlefinger knew things about her that he did not. Sansa's face hardened.

"I had no friends in King's Landing," she said, her jaw set fiercely.

"You had one," replied Littlefinger gently. Sansa looked up at him, a subtle but sudden surge of warmth on her face.

"You're right. I did, Lord Baelish. Forgive me." she smiled at him almost tenderly.

"I'm afraid that's not all," continued Littlefinger. "While King Tommen was not present in the Sept, likely kept away by his mother, he jumped from his chamber window immediately after. Cersei has claimed the thrones for herself."

Jon clenched his fist on the arm of his chair. It was only his second day being King and already the entire realm had descended into an even greater chaos than had gripped it before. He needed to reinforce the walls of Winterfell. He needed to rest what few men he had left. He needed to parley with the great houses and find lands on which the Free Folk could settle. He needed to find some way to prepare The North for the horrors that waited just beyond the wall.

He didn't have the men or the resources to even handle the challenges already set before him. The North couldn't fight any more southern wars. Winter had come at last, and this one would be longer than any that any of them had ever known.

"How does this change our position?" Jon asked finally.

"For now, it doesn't have to change anything, Your Grace" replied Lord Baelish, leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Cersei's claim to the throne is tenuous at best, but no one still living has a better one. She has no more heirs though, and she's running out of Lannister's to crown.

"Jamie will likely return to King's Landing if he hasn't already, and the majority of their men will need to return as well. King's Landing will be uneasy after such a coup, and they'll need every available man to keep the peace."

"Riverrun will be under light guard," he continued, "if you want to retake it for the Tully's — or for yourself. The Tully's won't be able to do it for themselves, or hold it for that matter. The Knights of the Vale are at your service in either case, Your Grace."

"No," said Sansa suddenly, "if Riverrun is lost, it is lost. Our duty is here, in The North." Littlefinger caught her gaze and Jon swore that he saw something secret pass between them.

"Are you sure, Sansa?" Jon asked her, his hand settling briefly on hers.

"Yes," she said firmly. "We have no men to spare, and we have thousands more people to protect. We have to fight our own battles before we can fight anyone else's. I regret the loss of Riverrun deeply, but it is not our fight." Jon nodded, squeezing her hand then reluctantly releasing it.

"Ser Davos," he said turning to the man at his right. "Your thoughts?"

"I agree that we stay put for now. There will likely be chaos in King's Landing, but that can't be our concern right now. That fight may come to us, but until it does, we should keep our distance."

"We need to be careful," Sansa said, lacing her fingers together on the table. "Cersei will be more dangerous now than ever. She's lost all three of her children, she has nothing left to lose, and she has the Iron Throne. Her ruthlessness is no longer chained by anything."

Jon nodded gravely acknowledging her words.

The next two hours passed in a blur. There were so many issues to attend to, and Jon threw himself into the work of addressing them all. Despite everything, he found himself grimly grateful to have Lord Baelish at the table. His mind was quick, his intuition sharp, and he had a better grasp of the political landscape of The North than Jon had himself — to say nothing of the Seven Kingdoms.

Jon hated to be beholden in any way to such a man, especially a man who couldn't seem to stop raking his eyes covetously over his sister, but he grudgingly understood why Sansa maintained him as an ally. For now, he'd just have to endure it.

As the council adjourned, Jon placed his hand on Sansa's elbow.

"Stay for a moment?" he asked her. She nodded as the other three shuffled to the door.

When they were gone, Jon lowered his head into his hands.

"Gods…" he groaned, overwhelmed and suddenly exhausted.

Sansa's cool hand skimmed his cheek, and Jon leaned into her touch.

"You were incredible," said Sansa softly. "You looked like father sitting there."

Jon closed his eyes and pressed a kiss against the inside of her wrist, his longing for her reaching a devastating crescendo that left him breathless. His need for her was unbearable, and these small caresses that he couldn't seem to deny himself only stoked the flames that grew inside of his chest.

With every fiber of his will, he took a ragged breath.

"You were incredible, too, Sansa. I can't do this without you," he said lacing his fingers through hers and bringing their hands down to rest on his knee. He sat back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling, anywhere but at her face.

"I want you to be careful around Littlefinger," Jon said finally. "I mean it, Sansa. The way that he looks at you —"

"I will be. I have been. I've known him much longer than you have, and I know how to maneuver around him to keep myself safe. You have to trust me, Jon. You can see how much he can help us right now, and we owe him so much. If I withdraw from him, it will upset the balance between us and put everything at risk. It's better to keep him close," she said.

Jon met her determined gaze. She was so strong and fierce, and yet the icy depths of her eyes betrayed a deep vulnerability. The combination was beguiling.

"It's him I don't trust," said Jon.

"And neither do I," said Sansa rising from her chair. Their hands still hung between them entwined. Jon couldn't resist pressing one more kiss to her knuckles before releasing her. Sansa's smile was impossibly sad as she turned to take her leave.

"Sansa —" he said, but his words caught in his throat as she turned her head again to face him, one hand on the door. He wanted to tell her that he loved her. He wanted to beg her not to leave. He wanted to stride across the room and press her up against the door, and claim her with all of the roiling passion that filled him.

"Thank you," he said instead.

"Of course, Jon," she said. And then she was gone.


	10. Petyr

**Chapter Ten | Petyr**

Petyr stood in the darkened alcove, his back pressed against the cold stone, watching the door down the hall. He could still feel her on his lips, chafed and raw from the long worshipful hours they'd spent roaming her body. His muscles sang with sweet exhaustion from their love making. He'd taken her twice more that morning, possessed with the need to claim her, to hear her gasping his name as she clung to him, quaking.

He hadn't fucked like that in years. And yet already he was hungry for her again, half-hard under his robes even as he eyed the door, the sickness of jealousy rising in him. He ached for her, and she was with Jon.

Jon had done well. He was barely more than a boy, but he bore an uncanny self-possession for one so young. Petyr couldn't help but bear him a grudging respect. He was sharp and humble, kind and strong. He was the kind of leader who would easily inspire devotion and love in his people.

But what about Sansa? What did he inspire in her?

Jon touched her too often. His eyes strayed to her too frequently. He moved when she moved, betraying a deep and constant awareness of her. It was obvious to anyone who cared to look that she pulled him, helplessly, like the tide. Before long people would start to talk, and what they would say could be the undoing of everything he was seeking to build.

Sansa was less readable, her ice blue eyes betraying little. That she felt great affection for Jon was clear, but Petyr couldn't read the depth of her devotion. She had become a blind spot for him. He thought again of the way that she had sighed in his arms, turning into him, nuzzling into his chest — the way that her eyes had sparkled up at him as he kissed her. Could he trust the warmth he saw there?

Petyr should have been thinking about how to wrest the North from Jon, but instead he was watching a door. He needed to see her face when she emerged. He needed to know what had passed between them. He had no idea where he stood, and the unfamiliar feeling left him unbalanced.

He didn't have to wait long. Sansa emerged after only a few moments, her face placid and serene. She smiled sweetly at the guards placed outside — his men, of course — sliding an envelope out of her long, draped sleeve.

"Good Ser," she said to one of them. "Will you make sure that this is given to Lord Baelish at once. It's from the King."

"Of course, my lady," he said with a bow. "Shall I wait for a reply?"

"No, there is no need. Lord Baelish will know what it is in regards to," she replied. With a nod of her head, she turned and disappeared down the passageway.

_Oh, will I?_

When she was gone, Petyr pushed himself off the wall with one foot and strode to where his men were standing. He motioned for the envelope and it was handed to him with a bow. Wordlessly he continued back to his chambers.

Once he had closed the door behind him, he examined the letter. It was sealed with the Stark seal, as a new seal for the new king had yet to be made. Sansa had left Jon quickly and seemingly unperturbed, so what could Jon have to say to him that he couldn't have said during the council meeting? Something wasn't adding up.

He ran his fingers over the seal, and his apprehension left him as he realized that it was cool to the touch. This had been sealed hours before, which meant that —

A smile playing on his lips, he grabbed a letter opener from the desk and broke the seal, one small white card sliding out into his hand. It was written in Sansa's elegant script.

_My chambers. Tonight._

The only signature was a scrawled heart. He ran his fingers over it, unable to contain his grin. It was such a girlish thing to find in a message that was so craftily delivered, and it stirred something deep inside him.

"Oh Sansa…" he mused aloud. He sat down at his desk and stared at the card. There hadn't been much time between the late morning hour when she had finally stolen out of his chambers and when he had joined them in the council meeting. She'd barely been gone from him an hour and already had been scheming to see him again. He pressed the card to his lips.

Night could not come fast enough.

* * *

It was dark when he stole to her chambers. The faint clamber of drinking and revelry still floated up from the great hall below, but the passageways were quiet enough to hear the crackle of the torches that lined the walls. Petyr's footsteps were silent as he approached. With one last sweep of his eyes down the corridor to ensure that he was alone he knocked.

Sansa opened the door swiftly. She had been waiting. Though he'd thought of nothing else all day he wasn't prepared for the sight of her. She was more radiant than he'd ever seen her, her eyes flashing coquettishly, an alluring shade of crimson rising in her cheeks.

"Lord Baelish," she said, with a small curtsy, her tongue caressing the words in a way that made his cock stir.

"My lady," he said with a courtly bow, his eyes not leaving hers.

"What brings you here at this hour?" she asked. Her tone was playful, teasing. She sparkled at him, her smile refracting the light in all directions. He'd never seen her this way before. She was dazzling.

"You," he said darkly, stalking through the door. He banded one arm around her waist, grabbing her to him, kicking the door shut behind him as his mouth claimed hers.

Sansa melted into him, her lips soft and eager against his as he spun her around, pressing her back against the wall, pinning her. His lips trailed from her mouth down to her neck, seeking out the delicate flesh that made her shiver in his arms, then down further still to the soft swell of her breasts. Her skin there was impossibly soft as he licked and nibbled, tracing along the top of her bodice, then dipping down into the deep crevice of cleavage. Her hands fisted in his hair.

"Petyr," she sighed, his name a lush incantation on her lips, igniting his blood.

He'd meant to go slow, to feel things out, but his desire for her was a gathering storm. It crackled in the air. He pulled back, trying to catch his breath. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he smoothed back her hair, willing his pulse to stop raging.

He needed to regain some semblance of control. This was all so sudden. He needed to be sure of her intentions. He needed to know that he could win her, truly, body and soul — that no trace of Jon remained in her.

He drew a deep breath. If there was anything that he knew how to do it was how to seduce. She was already soft and trembling in his arms, but he knew that he needed to drag her into much deeper waters if he was truly going to possess her heart. He needed to touch her in ways and in places that no man had ever reached her before.

_Or ever will again._

She angled her parted lips up toward his, seeking his kiss, but he caught the hair at the nape of neck, holding her in place.

"Are you wet, Sansa?" he asked, his nose gently nuzzling hers, his voice dark and husky. Eyes still closed, she caught her lower lip between her teeth and nodded, her breath a heated pant.

"Good," he said, stepping back from her. She gazed up at him with hooded eyes, looking almost wounded by his withdrawal. With a dark swell of triumph, he kissed the back of her hand.

"Come sit with me?" he asked, arching one eyebrow at her, a smile playing on his lips. She nodded, following him a bit unsteadily.

He sat on the chaise near the fire, leaning up again the arm and cocking up one knee to rest his leg against its deeply cushion back. Still holding her hand, he pulled her down to sit in the space between his legs. Her hand settled high on his thigh, thickening his already aching cock. He willed himself to retain his composure.

"I was glad to see that your brother granted you a seat on the small council," he said twisting the end of a long tendril of hair on her back around his finger. "It was time that he recognized your contribution."

Sansa cocked one eyebrow at him.

"I'm glad he gave you one," she said wryly. "It's you he doesn't trust."

He chuckled, a genuine sound that rolled deep in chest. She had grown so strong and willful in the months since he'd left her with the Bolton's. To think of the horrors that had caused that change in her — it was almost more than he could bear. It followed him every second of the day.

But to see the woman who now bloomed before him. Fierce and defiant, yet still so deeply vulnerable — it was intoxicating. The shadow of what he had seen in her all those years ago was now made flesh. He was in awe.

"Yes, your brother doesn't like me much, does he," he replied, lacing his fingers through hers.

"No," she said, a wicked smile playing on the corner of her mouth, "In fact he told me to stay away from you. That's why he wanted me to stay after the council meeting."

Petyr was surprised that she offered the information so readily. If they could truly learn to trust each other —

"And what did you tell him?" he asked, smirking.

He could feel the heat of her body as she leaned further into him, subtly seeking out greater contact. Petyr longed to flip her onto her back and take her roughly right then and there, but instead he raised her hand to his lips, giving it a slow, lush kiss, letting her feel the wet heat of his slightly parted mouth.

"I told him that I could handle you," she purred, turning into him, running one hand up his chest.

"And do you think you can? Handle me?"

Sansa's eyes flashed with desire, her eyes hooded as she leaned into him, her lips seeking his.

"Yes," she murmered.

In one swift movement he spun her in his arms so that she lay between his legs with her back pressed up against him. Brushing the hair away from her neck, he pressed his lips to her ear.

"Shhh," he soothed her, "Don't worry, my love. I'm going to fuck you. I'm going to spend hours inside you tonight. But not yet. You have to be patient. I say when."

A small pleading sound escaped her, but otherwise she was quiet, her body melting into his.

"Good," he whispered against the soft skin behind her ear, his hands gentling her.

"Tell me, Sansa, why did you tell Jon not to take Riverrun?" he asked her, his lips ghosting down her neck. "He could have taken it for you. I would have given him the men."

"It wouldn't have been for me," she said, her voice soft and dreamy as she shivered at his touch. "It would have been Jon's even if he meant it to be for me."

He smiled, his suspicions confirmed. She did understand, and she played the game well.

"And if it's Jon's then it can't be ours," she continued. "You had to offer him the Knights of the Vale because you need him to trust you, and I stopped him from accepting, because it wasn't what's best for us."

_Ours. Us._

Those words on her lips made him feel like he was surfacing after a long time under water, his lungs filling with air that he wasn't sure he'd ever find again. But just as swiftly the darkness of his doubt settled onto him again. Could he trust her?

Just two nights ago she had writhed under Jon's touch. Just two nights ago it was Jon making her moan, making her tremble, making her come. It was Jon's name on her lips.

He was glad that she couldn't see his face, because he knew that it would reveal the tumult inside of him. He felt like he was bordering on madness. He felt overcome with the need to take her roughly, claiming her. To demonstrate to her body that she belonged to him and to no other.

But he knew that he couldn't push her too far — not after Ramsay and not with all of the distrust lingering between them. He couldn't afford to lose control with her. It would mean losing everything.

"Ours," he whispered in her ear, his arms wrapping tightly around her. His hands found the fullness of her breasts and lifted them gently testing their weight in hands. He kneaded the soft flesh through the rich blue fabric of her gown, as Sansa's head rolled back against his shoulder.

"Ours," she echoed, her words a sigh.

As he held her he could see the deep valley between her breasts, her skin like silk. He brought his hands up to the top of her gown and then slid them underneath, sliding over the impossibly soft skin, seeking out her nipples.

She gasped as he found them, capturing them between his fingertips. Gently he rolled them, plucked them, teased them as Sansa began to writhe against him.

He loved how responsive she was. In his brothels, it could take months to teach one of his girls to respond to a man's touch this way — and some never learned. Her breath was shallow as she caught her bottom lip between her teeth, her hips undulating subtly. She was the picture of pure and naked desire, his every caress stoking a fire within her.

But this wasn't a girl in a brothel. This was Sansa, beautiful and perfect and utterly inexperienced in the ways of love. This was Sansa melting into his touch, soft moans beginning to rise in her throat, the movement of her body a silent plea for more.

She took to pleasure so readily. She was built for it. And Petyr intended to spend the rest of his life being the one to give it to her.

Petyr pressed his lips to the side of her face as his fingers continued their gentle ministrations. His cock was hard and pulsing against her back as she writhed in his arms, but he ignored his own need. There was something that he needed more.

Sansa fisted her hands in her skirts, moaning softly, one of her knees hitching up revealing her smooth white thigh underneath.

"Petyr," she sighed his name, "Please. I need you."

"Not yet," he said against her ear. "I'll tell you when."

"Please," she repeated her plea.

"First I want you to touch yourself. I want you to pull up your skirts and let me watch you touch yourself while I play with your perfect little nipples."

He could feel her hesitation, her sudden shyness, but he didn't relent, his fingers teasing, his lips devouring the soft flesh of her neck and shoulder.

"Do it, my love," he breathed against her skin.

Slowly her hands lifted her skirts, one hand searching below them to find her sex.

"Higher, Sansa," he said giving her nipples a soft pinch, his voice full of dark warning, "I need to see that beautiful little cunt."

She was gasping now in his arms, her desire overtaking her. In one motion she lifted her skirt to her waist, her thighs splayed wantonly as her fingers parted the lips of her cleft, revealing her soft, petal pink center.

"Let me taste you, my love," he ground out the command, and she didn't hesitate this time, lifting two wet fingers to his lips. He growled as he sucked them between his lips. She tasted rich like rose water and honey. He wanted to devour her whole.

He let her fingers fall wetly from his lips and she returned them to her sex, his saliva mixing with her own wetness as she rubbed frenzied circles over the tight bundle of her clit.

"Don't come," he said, trapping her ear between his teeth, her breasts hot and heaving in his hands.

"Please, Petyr. I can't stop. I need —"

Sensing her climax coming he stood in once graceful motion, carrying her in his arms to the bed. He put her down gently standing her beside it, her legs unsteady, clinging to him. Petyr held her up easily. With an arm banded around her waist he lifted her lips to his and kissed her deeply, letting her feel the full heat of his desire.

His deft hands found the laces in the back of her dress. He made quick work of them without breaking their kiss. Undressing a beautiful woman, he'd always found, was one of the great pleasures in life. He liked to linger over each step, revealing her slowly.

But the madness of his need for her had taken him and he stripped her quickly and methodically until she was naked in his arms.

"Lie down on the bed, Sansa." His voice was a rough command. She didn't resist him, sinking back on the bed, still propped up on one elbow watching him hungrily, her skin flushed and radiant.

With the same quick, sharp movements that he'd used to undress her he stripped off his own garments, letting them fall to the floor without breaking her gaze. His cock sprung free as he pushed his doe skin britches to the floor, and he smiled a darkly masculine smile at Sansa's sharp intake of breath.

He might not have been blessed with lands and titles, but there was one area where he had been blessed more than most men, and it bobbed now, thickly veined between his legs.

"Turn over onto your stomach," he said stalking toward the bed. Sansa did as she was told.

He lowered himself over her slowly, taking in the site of her. Her red hair pooled around her head, her lips were crimson from his kiss and wetly parted, the arch of her back was a study in regal elegance, and the full roundness of her ass was the embodiment of carnal sin.

Petyr straddled her thighs letting his cock settle in the seam of her buttocks, his hands reach up to rub her neck and shoulders. She sighed under his touch.

Petyr meant to take his time with her, rubbing every part of her until she had been worked into a frenzy, but as soon as began to touch her he could tell that they were both already there. They moved together as he worked his way down her back, her soft flesh yielding under his hands as her hips moved of their own volition beneath him.

He drew back on his knees to the edge of the bed rubbing down her thighs, massaging her calves, capturing her feet in his hands. He lifted her toes to his mouth, licking across them before sucking them gently between his lips. Sansa writhed, crying out, her thighs spreading so he could see the slickness of her sex peeking out.

He dove at her like a man possessed. He surged forward capturing her buttocks in both of his hands, kneading deep into the muscle. Growling he mounded the soft flesh in one hand as he raked his teeth against the swell of her ass. Sansa gasped. Rearing up he spread her wide so that he could see her.

"Petyr," she panted.

"You are so beautiful, my love," he said to her as his eyes drank her in, "So perfect."

He thrust his fingers between her legs, running his fingers through the folds of her drenched sex. Easily he slid in two fingers, churning them inside of her, loving the feeling of her rippling and contracting against them. Sansa lifted her hips to meet him, opening herself to him further. He rewarded her by twisting his fingers to rub the sensitive front wall of her sex, seeking out the place that made her quake beneath his touch.

"Petyr!" He loved the sound of his name on her lips. He couldn't get enough of it.

"You're so tight, Sansa," he purred as his fingers thrust in her. "I'm going to fuck this beautiful little cunt for hours."

"Please," she begged him, her breath ragged, her hips undulating wildly.

This time he couldn't deny her. With one hand he dragged her hips to meet his, and in one fluid motion replaced his fingers with the thick surge of his cock. The second he was inside her, she cried out coming around him, milking him as her pleasure took her. A primal sound erupted from Petyr as he pumped into her, riding her through her climax, one orgasm rolling into the next as he took her roughly.

As it subsided, he rolled her beneath him, settling between her thighs. He cradled her head in his hands and found tears on her cheeks. His heart leapt into his throat. Had he hurt her? Had he gone too far? A feeling of sick dread filled him.

"Sansa, my love, what's wrong?" he asked seeking out her eyes.

"I've just never felt anything like—" her voice broke as she spoke. Petyr thought that his heart would break, but then her lips found his, her hands in his hair holding his to her, her legs wrapping around his waist. His chest swelled with emotion.

"I'm just getting started, my love," he said, his hand lifting her into a deft roll of his hips that claimed her once more.


	11. Sansa

**Chapter 11 | Sansa**

Sansa couldn't be sure how long she'd been asleep, but it was still dark when she opened her eyes. The last thing she remembered was the boneless, wordless pleasure of Petyr pulling her against his chest, his hands tangled in her hair as he kissed her lazily, both of them still breathless and panting.

She opened her eyes to him crouched in front of the fire wearing only his britches, the muscles of his back rippling as he stoked the flames. She stayed silent and still, watching him, fascinated. In more ways than one, she felt like she was seeing him for the first time. He rose in one languid movement, retrieving a glass of wine from the table behind him without looking. He raised it to his lips with a ringed hand, and drank deeply.

The difference between Lord Baelish and the man who now prowled her chambers was so profound that Sansa had found herself feeling suddenly shy around him. She knew Lord Baelish well. Lord Baelish moved with a courtly grace, his movements and mannerisms refined and austere. He had the deliberate, studied air of a priest.

But the man who'd stalked through her door that night, sweeping her into his arms, the man who had ravished her so entirely, was not that man. This was not Lord Baelish, but Petyr who moved like a shadowcat, all of his lines elegant and deadly. She watched him from under the furs as he poured himself more wine and then reclined on the chaise, one arm hitched up over the back, one foot propped up on the table before him. Even in this state of languid repose, he seemed coiled and ready to spring.

He was beautiful, the picture of decadent masculinity. And Sansa saw in him, perhaps for the first time, a king.

He wasn't Jon. Jon was warmth and peace. He was the gentle sound of snow in the Godswood. Jon was home. And like her home, it seemed that she could never have him. Some things, once lost, could never be regained.

But Petyr offered the promise of something else — a new life, power, protection, and a searing love that, if true, could be a safe place for her broken heart to land. But could she trust him? Was he true?

She rose quietly, wrapping herself loosely in a silk robe the color of midnight. Petyr must have heard her coming, but he kept his eyes on the fire. She approached him from behind, running one hand down his chest, leaning forward to let her hair whisper against his back and shoulders.

"Do you ever sleep?" she asked, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"Not often, and never for long," he said raising her hand from his chest to his lips. "Night is when I'm at my sharpest."

"Now there's a terrifying thought," she said teasing as he pulled her around to the front of the chaise and into his lap. Sansa lowered her lips to his, kissing him sweetly, her hair falling around his face as he ran his hands down her sides, hitching his hand behind her thigh, pulling her closer to him.

"You," he said with a dark hum of appreciation, "should only ever wear silk robes." His hands roamed her body, feeling the liquid smooth fabric ghosting over her warm skin. Sansa smiled against his lips. His naked desire for her, as always, bringing a flutter to her chest.

It was so tempting to give in to him, to bask in his attention, to lose herself to his touch — and too often already, she had. But she knew that she needed to keep her head clear now more than ever. She needed to know for certain what his intentions were, and the only way to do that was to raise the stakes — to force his hand and see what cards he played. She caught herself hoping a little too hard that he played the right ones.

"Tell me what you're thinking about," she said sliding down further in his lap so she could rest her head on his shoulder.

"Only you," he replied, stroking her hair, his lips skimming her forehead.

"That's very sweet," she said, taking his wine glass out of his hand, "but we both know it's a lie." The southern wine was tart and cool on her lips as she drained the last of the ruby red liquid from the glass.

"You promised we would be partners. We can't be partners if I don't know what's going on. So tell me what's bothering you," Petyr regarded her for a long second.

"You're right, my love," he said, reaching for the pitcher on the table beside them to refill the glass.

"I sent a raven to High Garden, to Olenna Tyrell pledging the Knights of the Vale to her service in avenging the loss of her family and removing Cersei from the throne, and I have yet to receive a reply. I've heard rumors that she's left High Garden, but no one seems to know where she has gone."

"Perhaps she went into hiding?" Sansa handed him back the glass, and he took it with an almost boyish smile, the familiar gesture of sharing one glass between them seeming to warm him. That a man like Petyr Baelish could be touched by such a small thing caught Sansa off guard. Was there anything about this man that was what it seemed? Placing the glass on the table beside him he refilled it from silver pitcher and drank deeply.

"Olenna? Never. She still has the biggest purse in the Seven Kingdoms, one of the few armies left of any note, and her house has been reduced to ashes. She has nothing to lose, and all of the means to exact revenge at her fingertips. She's not hiding anywhere. It's Cersei who should hide."

"And she has no heir," said Sansa, straightening herself to look at him.

"Exactly," he said, "and I've taken great pains to build that relationship, to prove myself to be a true and loyal friend to House Tyrell. I've removed Lannisters from the Iron Throne for them before. It seems natural that we should partner to do it once more."

"Well, where could she be?" Sansa asked, her attention rapt. He'd never spoken so candidly with her before, and this information was far more than she had expected out of him.

"I'm not sure," he replied lacing one hand with hers as he returned the glass to her fingers. "She could be coming to the Eyrie, or to Winterfell if the news of the battle has reached her. Or there are — other possibilities…" his voice trailed off, a darkness settling into his eyes.

"Like what?" asked Sansa, searching him.

"The last I heard of Varys he was across the narrow sea," he replied absently twisting a strand of her hair in his fingers.

"What does Varys have to do with anything?" she asked, suddenly feeling the weight of her own naiveté.

"Ah," he said, lifting the wine to his lips, "you can always find Varys near at hand when it comes to matters of succession. I'm sure he'll make his presence felt soon."

"And what does he want?"

"Now there's one question that I've never been able to fully answer," he said. "Eunuchs don't want the things that other men want."

"So what will we do?" she asked him. Petyr looked at her, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"We'll wait," he said.

Sansa lifted her mouth to his and he took it slowly, gently, savoring her as he had savored the wine. Her heart thrummed in her chest, her head feeling suddenly light from more than just the glass in her hand.

"Thank you," she said when he finally broke their kiss. "Thank you for being so open with me. It means more to me than you know." She meant it. Petyr raised their laced fingers to his lips and kissed the back of her hand.

"I meant what I said, Sansa. I want you by my side in all things." Sansa could feel the glow in her cheeks as she looked up at him. The pretty picture that he'd painted her began to seem real.

She knew she couldn't let herself get lost, but she could feel her grasp slipping. Still she moved forward. She could find her composure in the morning.

_It makes it easier to lie if it's not entirely a lie._

"I've been doing some thinking, too," she said smiling up at him over the rim of the wine glass in her hand.

"Have you," he mused, his fingers tracing her jaw as she raised the glass to her lips.

"I have," she replied. "I've been thinking that I should speak to Jon about arranging a marriage for me — to Robin."

"To Robin Arryn, Defender of the Vale?" he asked, his obvious amusement mixing with mock surprise on his face. "Should I be jealous?"

His hand fisted in the hair at her nape, exposing her neck to him, which he kissed roughly letting her feel the scrape of his teeth.

"No," she said playfully fighting him off, "I don't imagine it will be a long marriage."

"Won't it?" he asked his eyes flashing dangerously down at her as a wicked smile curved his lips. Sansa found herself suddenly almost breathless at his dark beauty.

"No," she said placing the wine glass on the floor so she could touch him, tangling her fingers in his chest hair. "I'm afraid that while you're off winning back Riverrun for me, Robin will be thrown from his horse or be taken by sickness or some other such tragedy."

"But he's only a boy," said Petyr, suddenly serious, his eyes searching hers.

"He's not a boy, and he'll be a man soon enough," she said raising one hand to his face. "A weak man unfit to rule — a man who will love nothing more than to throw people through the moon door on a passing whim. I've seen the horrors that both war and a cruel, undisciplined ruler can visit upon the realm. I'd choose a little poison over either."

"I can't say that I disagree," replied Petyr, one eyebrow raised, "but don't you think that the people will suspect the truth?" Sansa realized that she was telling him nothing that he hadn't thought of before. He wanted to know if she had thought about it and where she stood. He was testing her.

"Of course they will," she said, "but the Tully name still means something in that part of the realm, and honestly, which of the great houses can truly want Robin as their liege lord and protector when Cersei rises against them? If they are tended to and made to feel properly involved, they'll look the other way. I know that they will. It's our marriage that will be harder to sell."

"Our marriage?" he asked flipping his body so she was beneath him, his eyes locked with hers.

"Yes," Sansa said with a smile, hitching one leg around his waist. "We'll be married shortly after you return from Riverrun. People will talk, of course, but I'll play the broken widow. I will have been married to the Imp, to a madman, and then to a sickly boy. Then the man who was a childhood friend of my mother's, a man who has been like an uncle to me will swoop in to take me under his protection to prevent me from suffering any other unfortunate marriages."

"We'll position it as a political marriage, as a defensive maneuver to ensure my safety and the safety of the Vale. Given time, I can sell that. They'll see that this arrangement is in their best interest, as well. After all, you will have already lead the Knights of the Vale to two important victories — who better for me to wed?" An exultant triumph filtered through Petyr's eyes like smoke.

"Who indeed," he murmured, cradling her head in his hands. "Are you proposing to me, Sansa?"

"Do you accept?" she asked, feeling suddenly shy, her bottom lip catching between her teeth.

"Do I accept the most romantic proposal imaginable from the most beautiful woman in the world?" he asked, his lips ghosting against hers. "Yes, of course I do. I'm powerless to resist." He took her mouth with a searing kiss that left Sansa panting in his arms.

"You would think that was romantic," she said with a laugh as he trailed kisses down her neck, her robe parting beneath his hands. With one quick flick of his fingers her breasts were bared to him, her nipples beading into aching points. She gasped as he took one between his lips, applying a torturously sweet pressure with his teeth. She wanted to surrender to the pleasure, but she knew she wasn't done yet.

"I have a condition," she said, and she felt Petyr's body tense. He raised his eyes to hers, and they flashed at her in the firelight with an unknowable but undeniably menacing look.

"Tell me," he said evenly. "What do you want, Sansa?"

"Jon keeps the North," she said. Petyr's eyes grew hard. He sat up, leaving her feeling suddenly cold and bereft. She sat up, too, not bothering to close her robe across her chest as she did so.

"The North should be yours, Sansa," he said. "It's yours by right. Jon is not a true born Stark. Why are you handing it over to him?"

His demeanor had changed so entirely, and it cut Sansa in a way that she wasn't expecting. Had she overplayed her hand? Had she moved too fast? Sansa began to feel a panic rise in her chest.

She refused to accept the sudden distance between them. She rose up on her knees and straddled him, allowing her robe to part fully as she settled onto him.

"I made a mistake," she said, letting all of her sadness at his sudden rebuff cover her face. "I should have taken the North when I had the chance. But Jon is king now, and the North has rallied to him. They love him. He looks like my father and he sits in my father's place, and those men who served my father and loved him like their own blood will follow Jon unto the ends of the earth. You can't know what he means to them." She thrust her hands in to his hair and pressed her naked flesh against his, trying to warm him to her.

"Even if we could find a way to move against him, even if I could bring myself to go to war with the last living member of my family, the North would never yield. It would go on for years. We have enough wars to fight." Sansa lowered her lips to his and kissed him gently. He accepted her kisses placidly, but the heat that had filled him only moments before was gone.

"I should have listened to you," she whispered against his lips. "I'm so sorry, Petyr. I won't make that mistake again." To her relief, she felt him soften under her touch, his arms wrapping around her as he returned her kiss.

"I'll win it back for you, my love. There's always a way," he said running his hands beneath her robe to slide along her naked back.

"No," she said her forehead resting against his, "I can't rise against him now. If I do, the Stark name will cease to have any meaning." Petyr remained silent, his eyes dark, his hands roaming her body possessively. She pressed forward. She had to make him see that they could not go to war with Jon.

"It can be better this way," she said deliberately pressing her breasts against his chest as she draped her arms around his neck. "Jon will be your brother by law and our natural ally. He won't be thrilled by our marriage, but he won't fight me if he believes it's what I truly want." The truth of those words threatened to knocked the wind out of her, but Sansa couldn't let herself think of that now.

"Jon will keep the peace in the North, and will fight beside us when we need him. We could be free to rule instead of fighting endless wars. We could bring a true and lasting peace to the realm. They'll write songs about your reign for a thousand years." She could see that her words were beginning to have an effect on Petyr. A smile flickered across his lips, as his hands cupped the curve of her buttocks pulling her forward onto his thickening hardness, desire coiling in his eyes. She almost had him. Sansa reached down between them and freed his cock.

"And the North will not be truly lost to you," she said raising herself to notch his wide crown with the entrance of her sex. Petyrs hands flexed against her hips, his lips parting, the heat of his desire flashing in his eyes. Sansa lowered herself onto him slowly, locking her eyes with is as took him inch by inch, letting him see the way that the feel of his cock affected her.

"Many things can change with time," she said, kissing him. "After all, your children will have Stark blood." Her words had the intended effect. With a low growl Petyr thrust himself up into her until he was buried to the hilt, a hand on her hip and one at the nape of her neck capturing her. He held her in place as he worked his cock into her, his mouth taking hers violently.

"Say it again," he commanded roughly, his voice darkened with unhinged lust.

"I will bear you children," she said gasping against his lips as her climax brewed within her like a storm. "I will be your wife. You will be my king. I'm yours, Petyr."

Petyr came inside her with a roar, pumping his cock into her as he filled her, the feel of it sending Sansa spiraling over the edge as she trembled in his arms. Before her own climax had even subsided, Petyr stood, lifting her easily in his arms, his cock still hard and pulsing inside of her and carried her to the bed.

He reared up over her as he lowered them both down onto the furs, cradling her head in his hands. His eyes searched hers, his face so full of passion that he looked almost anguished.

"And I'm yours, Sansa. I love you," he said. Tears pricked in Sansa's eyes, rushing up unbidden and spilling down her cheeks. She wanted to believe his words so badly. She hadn't meant to risk so much in this game, but as he said the words her heart constricted painfully. She'd lost so much. She didn't want to lose this, too. She didn't want to lose him.

"I love you, too, Petyr," she said, her voice breaking with emotion. An exultant smile broke over his face as he covered her with ardent kisses, and even through her tears Sansa couldn't help giggling in his arms at his joy.

He stayed inside of her, making slow, gentle love to her, whispering promises of his devotion into her skin until dawn. Sansa couldn't remember ever having been so happy.

* * *

Sansa stared anxiously at the door to her chamber. She'd just seconds before ushered Petyr through it with a lingering kiss. She hoped that she had timed everything perfectly — Brienne was usually so punctual — but she couldn't be sure.

She turned and looked at herself in the mirror. Wearing only her silk robe her lips were swollen to a deep crimson, her skin flushed, her hair a wild tangle. She was the very picture of a freshly ravished woman — which was exactly her intention.

The knock came at the door, and Sansa smiled. Brienne must have passed Petyr in the passageway looking uncharacteristically disheveled and in entirely the wrong part of the castle for so early in the day. Now Sansa needed only to paint the rest of the picture for her.

She opened the door in a rush, looking embarrassed.

"Lady Brienne! Is it 9 o' clock already? I apologize. I must have overslept. Please, come in. I'll only be a moment."

"Of course, my lady," said Brienne stepping through the door, her face suddenly grave as she took in the sight of her. Sansa swept her way to her dressing room, leaving Brienne to take in the scene in her chamber. It was not a subtle tableau: the furniture around the fire askew, the fine southern wine still glittering half-drunk on the table, pillows scattered across her bed, and moon tea on her night stand.

Sansa dragged a brush through her hair trying in vain to straighten it, but quickly abandoned that effort gathering it up into a hasty chignon. She dressed herself quickly and returned to her chambers to find Brienne still standing dutifully by the door, her face filled with concern. She was as trustworthy as she was predictable, and Sansa found herself filled with a sudden swell of fondness.

"My lady," said Brienne hesitantly, "is everything…all right?"

"Yes, of course," Sansa replied airily securing a choker with the Stark seal around her throat. "What could be wrong?"

"It's just that I— " she halted her words, clearly at war with herself, uncertain whether she was honor bound to ask the question on her lips or to not ask it.

"What is it, Lady Brienne?" asked Sansa turning toward her with a smile. Brienne regarded her for a moment and then straightened herself, setting her jaw.

"I saw Littlefinger in the hallway, and I find you now like this, and I have to ask, my lady, if you are…in any danger." The blush that rose to Sansa's cheeks at her words was not counterfeit. She knew what Brienne must think of her, lying with the man who she had only weeks before been ready to have cut down for betraying her.

"A lot has changed in your absence, Lady Brienne," she replied. "Lord Baelish has proven himself to be a true and loyal friend. We wouldn't be here in Winterfell without him. I was wrong about him. I was wrong about a lot of things."

"I'm not sure that you were," said Brienne.

"I'm not willing to discuss this private matter with you, Lady Brienne," Sansa replied, "You're just going to have to trust me."

Brienne nodded her ascent, but Sansa could see in her eyes that she was not convinced — which was exactly what Sansa was counting on.

She was in far too deep with Petyr now. She knew how his mind worked. It was a dangerous game they were playing, and even as he swore his love to her, she knew that he wouldn't make a move unless he knew for certain that it would get him what he wanted. At least a part of him would be as deeply suspicious of her as she still was of him. He'd have her every move watched, which meant that she couldn't be watching him.

But Brienne could. And having her work seemingly behind Sansa's back was the best way to assure her safety should she be caught.

If she found something of importance, she knew Brienne would come to her. And if she found nothing…well. Sansa pushed down the swell of hope that rose in her chest.

"Come," she said, "Jon will be waiting. He wants to speak to you about the role you are to play among his advisors."

Together they stepped out into the hall, closing the door.


	12. Jon

**Chapter 12 | Jon**

Jon signed the final document on his desk with a hurried flourish and pushed it towards Ser Davos who sat opposite him in a wide leather chair. They'd been at it for hours, dealing with the seemingly endless matters of various lands and houses that had been neglected under the Bolton's rule. Though he'd started just after sun up, he could see the dim winter light outside his window beginning the subtle shift into evening.

"If that's the last of it, Ser Davos," said Jon placing his pen back into the ink well, "I think it's high time that we called for the ale."

Ser Davos slid the paper from the desk, gathering it neatly with the rest of the pile and stowed it in a leather satchel.

"There is still one more matter to attend to," he said, "but I think you might want to call for the ale first."

"That sounds ominous," said Jon, motioning for the boy standing in wait in the corner, "I guess we'll drink first then."

Jon stood and stretched, his muscles aching from the hours hunched over his desk.

"I never knew it was possible to get so exhausted sitting in a chair," he said, a nod of his head indicating to Ser Davos that they should move to the chairs by the fire.

"Young blood doesn't like to stay still," Ser Davos replied as the men settled into the chairs together.

The boy scrambled to place the glasses on the table between them, filling them with an unsteady hand. Jon looked at the boy who could be no older than eight, his eyes landing on an old mottled bruise that was yellowing around his eye. He must have been one of Ramsay's, spared and given refuge after the siege. Jon suddenly felt like he was back on his knees inside the castle gates, Ramsay's bloodied face crunching wetly beneath his fists.

"What's your name, lad?" he asked gently as the boy's trembling hand sloshed ale over the rim of the glass.

"I—I'm sorry, Your Grace," he said, his face going pale.

"It's fine, lad," said Jon. "You aren't the first person to spill ale in this room, and I'm sure you won't be the last." The boy looked up at him furtively, his face a mask of his fear.

"What's your name?" Jon asked again.

"R—Robb, You Grace," he replied his eyes cast downward.

"That's a good, solid name," said Jon lifting his ale from the table. "That was my brother's name."

"I know, Your Grace. I was named for him."

"You look strong, Robb. Are you good with a sword?"

"I'm learning, Your Grace."

"Well, keep at it, Robb. Everyone, even great knights, have to start somewhere. If you'd like you can take lessons with the fencing master in the mornings before you start work. Then maybe in a few months you can show me what you've learned. Would you like that?"

"Yes, Your Grace," the boy still looked apprehensive, but his eyes flashed with excitement. Jon smiled at him warmly.

"Alright then. I'll arrange it. You can start next week. Now run along, Robb. We can serve ourselves from here."

"Thank you, Your Grace," he said, backing away with a bow. He scrambled to the door and was gone.

Jon handed the glass in his hand to Ser Davos and then picked up the other for himself. When he met the man's eyes, they were twinkling at him.

"I'm proud to serve you," said Ser Davos lifting his glass. Jon raised his in return. He should have said something gracious and kingly in reply, but he found that the words stuck in his throat. He caught himself thinking of his father sometimes when Ser Davos spoke, and he found increasingly that his good opinion of him meant more than he could entirely explain.

The men fell into a comfortable silence, both of them resting their boots on the table in front of them, the fire roaring in the imposing fireplace.

"Being a king isn't at all how you imagine it when you play at it as a boy," said Jon finally, staring into the flames.

"No, I'm sure that it isn't," said Ser Davos.

"It's all paperwork and decisions. I thought it would be all wars and battles and glory — though I suppose that I was wrong about what those things were like, as well," he mused taking a long drink of ale.

"If we told boys what wars were really like," said Ser Davos, "there'd be no one to fight them."

"Isn't that the truth," said Jon with a wry smile. "So what is this final matter that we need to discuss?"

"The matter of your marriage." Ser Davos let the words hang in the air.

"It's only been a few days," said Jon sighing deeply. "Surely it can wait a few weeks? A few months?"

"I wish that it could," he replied, his face filled with genuine compassion, "but unfortunately the reality of your parentage means that you need to make a match with a lady of the one the great houses to secure your claim on Winterfell. You'll need their support — and you won't truly have it until you tie yourselves to them through marriage."

Jon's hand fisted on the arm of his chair. He knew he needed to do his duty, but so soon? He wasn't ready. He saw Sansa's red hair in the flames and shut his eyes.

"And who do you suggest that I wed?" asked Jon, his voice harder than he meant it to be as he asked the question through gritted teeth.

"You can have your pick of ladies, but I would suggest Lyanna Mormont," replied Ser Davos.

"Lyanna?" asked Jon, incredulous. "Lyanna is a child! What is she, ten?"

"Eleven," he replied. "and she's from a great house. Choosing her would give you the chance to show that you reward loyalty. And her age means that you could have a long betrothal which would buy you some time — to move on." Jon froze, his glass half raised to his lips.

"I don't think I catch your meaning, Ser Davos," he replied darkly.

"Ah, but I think that you do, Jon," his voice was gentle, but his eyes were steady, not backing down. "I see the way that you look at her, and it won't be long before everyone else does, too. And I wouldn't be serving you if I didn't try to steer you from it."

Jon couldn't find it in himself to deny it — not to Davos. He lowered his feet to the ground and put his head in hands, squeezing his temples between them trying to block out the roaring in his ears.

"You don't have to feel ashamed in front of me," Ser Davos continued, "Of all of the horrors that I've seen in this world, I can't judge a man for who he loves. I know who you are, and I meant what I said — I am proud to serve you. But Jon, this wouldn't just be your ruin, but the ruin of the North. It would be the ruin of her."

Jon knew the truth of his words. It was nothing that he hadn't thought himself. But to hear it from someone else's lips — to hear it from someone whom he so deeply respected, shook him to the core. He thought that his feelings for Sansa could be his secret, but apparently this was not a secret that could stay buried. He was telling it with his every glance, his every move. His need for her was a fever, a sickness that was growing in him, eating away at him like a progressive rot that threatened to devour not only him, but everything left that he held dear if he didn't put an end to it somehow.

"Tell me what to do," Jon said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"You know what you have to do, Jon. You have to send her away. Marry her to someone who can protect her — a good man, someone far away. And then you must marry another and try to forget."

Jon sat back, pounding his fist on the arm of his chair. Tears brimmed in his eyes that he didn't bother to wipe away in front of Ser Davos. He was already exposed.

"I love her," he said finally meeting the older man's gaze.

"Then save her," replied Ser Davos, his eyes grave and sad.

Jon looked at him for a long moment more and then nodded, turning back to the fire. Ser Davos stood, clapping one hand on Jon's shoulder.

"It's like you said, being a king is all about decisions," he said as he turned to leave. "We can talk more later."

Jon waited until he heard the door close behind him before throwing his glass into the fire, the shards dancing and skittering in the flames.

He needed to see her. He knew it was madness, but he was on his feet before he could stop himself. If he was going to send her away, what harm could it do to see her now?

Wiping his face on the back of his sleeve, he grabbed his cloak and threw open the door.

"Ser Dandrick," he said to the man standing outside. "Do you know where Lady Sansa is?"

"The last I heard she was in the Godswood, Your Grace," he replied with a bow.

"Thank you," said Jon, striding down the passageway to the courtyard below.

His boots pounded down the stairs, and then out into the fresh snow outside, driven by some mad impulse. He didn't even think about what he was going to say until he was almost upon her.

He froze at the edge of the clearing when he saw her, feeling suddenly uncertain. She sat on one of the large, gnarled roots of the weirwood staring into the frozen pool, her face propped on one delicate gloved hand.

Ghost had followed him soundlessly, and as Jon stopped he trotted past him, rounding the pool toward Sansa. She was lost in thought, only looking up when Ghost approached her, lowering his large head to nudge against Sansa's knee.

Sansa looked up with a small smile, scratching him behind one ear, her eyes sweeping the clearing until she met Jon's. He walked slowly toward her as she spoke softly to Ghost, stroking his white fur as he knelt down at her feet. It was rare for Ghost to invite physical contact from anyone but Jon himself, but he was eager and submissive as a puppy at Sansa's feet.

"He's not like that with anyone," said Jon as he approached, settling himself on an outcropping of roots a few feet away. "He knows you're a Stark. He senses the wolf's blood in you."

Something unfathomable and almost pained flashed behind Sansa's eyes, but with her lips she smiled.

They fell into silence. Jon stared down at his gloved hands uncertain of what to say.

"What are you doing here?" she asked finally.

"Looking for you," said Jon, meeting her gaze with a small smile. "What are you doing here?"

Sansa regarded him for a moment and then lifted a leather flask from where it had been nestled in her skirts. Jon chuckled and reached out his hand.

"What is this?" he asked as she passed it to him.

"Some sort of wildly expensive brandy from the south," she replied. "Petyr brought casks of it with him." Jon had never heard her use his first name before and the familiar sound of it on her lips made him uneasy.

"He certainly doesn't travel light," said Jon, his voice tinged with scorn as he lifted the flask to his lips. It was richer and sweeter than anything he'd ever tasted as it sloshed over his tongue and curled warmly into his belly.

"Seven hells that's good. That fancy prick knows his drink, at least. I'll give him that" he said, taking another swig.

Sansa giggled, the sound light and sparkling in the thick silence of the Godswood. Jon couldn't help but smile at her, and she smiled back, the warmth from the brandy riding high in her cheeks.

"Drinking in the Godswood," she said in mock horror. "What would father say?"

"It wouldn't be the first time," he said, passing the flask back to her.

Sansa looked genuinely surprised.

"You're bad," she said, before taking another deep swig. Ghost settled his head by her feet.

Jon regarded her for a moment, breathtaking and regal in profile against the white trunk of the weirwood, even as she drank, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. And yet just under the surface lurked a sadness that was almost palpable. It hung thick in the air around her.

"Are you OK, Sansa?" he asked her, his voice low and filled with concern.

Sansa looked at him with a smile so forced that it was more of a grimace, her eyes betraying her. She looked down at her hands.

"I remember coming here as a girl," she said. "I remember playing here with Arya, even though we weren't supposed to and father would yell at us. I feel like I can hear him better here. I can see him sitting in this spot sharpening his sword. Sometimes when I think of him, I can't bring his face to my mind anymore, but when I'm here it comes to me more clearly."

"I know what you mean," said Jon, his heart aching.

"Sometimes I have a hard time drawing a line between the girl that played here and the woman I am now. So much has happened. So much of it feels like a fever or a half remembered dream. I don't know which parts are real and which parts I only imagined. Sometimes it feels like I'm losing the thread of myself." Her voice broke, and she took another swig of brandy.

Pain lanced through Jon's chest as he listened to her words. He knew that he could only imagine the horrors that she'd been through. Watching their father's execution, being tortured by Joffrey, Ramsay —it was more than he could bear. He knelt beside her, placing the flask on the ground and wrapping both of her hands in his.

"You're Sansa Stark of Winterfell," he said looking up at her, seeking out her eyes. "And I won't let you lose yourself."

"I don't even know if I'm that anymore," she said, her eyes hard and bleak as the heaviest snows he'd seen beyond the wall. He longed to pull her into his arms and warm her, but instead he pulled her hands to his lips, kissing them gently.

"You are to me," he said. Recognition dawned on her face, breaking through her steely gaze, as she heard her own words to him on the battlements echoed back to her.

"Thank you, Jon" she said raising one hand lightly to his cheek.

"Always," he vowed.

Sansa shook her head as if to shake off the darkness that had settled there. When she looked at him again, her eyes were more clear, the storm seeming to have passed for the moment.

"So what did you come here to tell me?" she asked.

"We don't need to talk about that now," Jon replied sitting back on his heels.

"Jon," she said smoothing her skirts, "whatever it is you can tell me. I'm not nearly as delicate as I look. I won't break."

Jon sighed, rising to his feet and settling next to her.

"I know you won't," he said, nudging his shoulder into hers.

"So what is it?" she asked. Jon sighed deeply.

"Ser Davos says that I need to make a match for a wife. Soon." He steeled himself for her reaction, but when she spoke her voice was calm and even.

"I figured that was coming," she said. "Do you have someone in mind?"

"He suggested Lyanna Mormont. I know she's only a child, but—"

"She's a good choice," said Sansa quietly. "She's worthy of you, at least."

Jon looked at the ground, unsure what to say. She floated away from him so easily. One second she was there and the next she was gone. He was drawn in by her flames, but since the night that she had left him in his chambers, she somehow always left him in the cold grasping at smoke.

"And who am I to marry?" she asked picking up the flask out of the snow and taking another drink.

"Whomever you please," said Jon. "You know I won't force anything upon you. You don't have to get married again at all. You could stay with me here—"

"You know that I can't," she replied.

"Yes, you can. After everything that's happened, people will understand — and fuck them if they don't. I can keep you safe, and I—"

"She'll be your wife and she'll share your bed and you'll love her, in time," she said interrupting him with sudden venom, "She's fierce and good like you and she deserves your love. You'll owe her that. And I can't watch it, Jon, I—" her voice broke as she spoke, and that small crack in her cool façade stoked a fire in him that grew suddenly into an inferno.

Jon pulled her across his lap, leaning her back over his arm as he kissed her. Gods and duty be damned, he kissed her with all of the longing and passion that had filled him since the day that she rode through the gates at Castle Black. Their lips melded together, her body melting into his, the rest of the world obliterated by the rightness of her in his arms.

But then a great sob wracked her and she was pushing him away. Jon relented, his arms going limp as she scrambled to her feet.

"Jon, please," she said, her voice a wretched plea. "Don't make me survive this, too." She spun on her heels and retreated back through the clearing as darkness descended over the Godswood.

 


	13. Petyr

"So where is he?" asked Petyr, his voice low and laced with menace.

"In the Godswood, my lord, with Lady Sansa. The direwolf was with him. We couldn't follow him without being detected." Ser Dandrick stood outside Petyr's door, his voice a whisper, his face stricken with fear.

"So they're alone, and we have no way to know what they are saying?" asked Petyr, his eyes flashing.

"Yes, my lord. I'm sorry, my lord."

"Not as sorry as you will be if this ever happens again," he replied. "You'll watch the Godswood and report to me the instant that Lady Sansa emerges, is that clear?"

"Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord." Ser Dandrick backed away from the door with a bow just as Sansa rounded the corner, her face flushed and her eyes wild. Whatever had passed between her and Jon in the Godswood had been quick. Petyr wasn't sure whether or not to be relieved.

"That will be all for tonight, Ser Dandrick," said Petyr as she approached.

Sansa rushed through the door without sparing a glance for the knight and buried her face in Petyr's chest. He closed the door, wrapping his arms around her.

"My love," he said breathing in the scent of her hair. "What is it? What's the matter?" Even through the thick haze of his jealousy and suspicion, the feel of her in his arms softened him. Her presence cut him as ever.

With a gentle hand he lifted her chin so he could see her face. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she looked up at him. She was so beautiful, even like this — exquisite. Petyr couldn't help himself from pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. The salt from her tears was mixed with the heady taste of brandy.

"You've been drinking," he murmured against her lips. Sansa nodded.

"I'm sorry, I just—" He silenced her with another kiss, this one deeper more demanding, the brandy mixing with the taste of her in a way that ignited his blood. He pulled her deeper into his embrace, his hands roaming her body possessively, needing to claim her.

Sansa melted into him, moaning softly under his kiss. His fears began to dissipate as his desire grew. She was still his, at least in this way. Whatever happened in the Godswood hadn't changed the way that she surrendered to his touch.

He wanted to carry her to the bed and demonstrate to them both how entirely he could possess her, but he knew he needed to play his hand carefully. He couldn't afford to be reckless when so much still hung in the balance. Slowly, Petyr broke their kiss, pulling back to brush his lips against her forehead, trying in vain to calm the rushing of his blood.

"You never have to apologize to me, Sansa," he said, brushing the hair back from her face. "Come. Sit with me." Sansa followed him wordlessly to the chaise.

As Petyr sat she curled into him, resting her head on his shoulder, reaching for his hand to lace her fingers through his. Petyr was only too happy to oblige, cradling her against him.

"Sweetling, why are you so sad?" he asked again, smoothing her hair, gentling her with his touch. He searched her face. Would she tell him where she had been? Would she tell him the truth?

"When can we leave?" she asked. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't an answer.

"In a fortnight. Maybe sooner, depending on a few different things, not the least of which is getting your brother to agree to the arrangement of your marriage to Robin."

"He'll agree to it," said Sansa, the bitterness in her voice cutting Petyr to the quick. "He's getting married to a child, too."

"To the Mormont girl?" asked Petyr, his voice not betraying the darkness brewing inside of him. Sansa looked down at her hands.

"Did everyone know but me?" she asked.

"It was just a guess. This is the first I'm hearing of it," his free hand toying with a tendril of her hair. "It's a terrible match. She has an old name, but no real lands or men to contribute. Although, I guess it makes sense in some sort of honorable way — as much good as that will do him. I'd suspect Davos is behind it."

"She's only a child," said Sansa, her voice suddenly full of venom. "She's only a child, and soon everything that should be mine will be hers."

_Including Jon._

The thought snaked like black tar through his veins, filling him. Was it truly Winterfell that she was afraid to lose or was it that fucking wolf-jawed fool that she called brother? Sansa reached for his glass of wine of the table, and took two long swallows. Petyr didn't try to stop her.

"I'll take it back for you," he said bringing her face up to his, needing to see her eyes. "You need only say the word. Our men outnumber his five to one, and they're already inside the castle walls. It could be yours within the hour."

Shock passed over her face, but was slowly replaced by a radiating warmth.

"I love you," she said fiercely, reaching up to touch his face. "I know that you would, and I love you for it. But I can't go to war with Jon. Not now. Not after everything that's happened. Please try to understand. He's all that's left of my family." Her voice broke on the final word, her eyes suddenly betraying an unfathomable sadness.

"Of course, my love," he said, kissing her gently. "It's your decision. Whatever you want. I only want to see you happy."

He spent the next hour doing all that he could to prove it. He lowered her back onto the chaise, tucking her under him, kissing her slowly, whispering his love against her skin as she sighed beneath him. She allowed him to open the front of her dress, exposing the swell of breasts to his languid ministrations, but she didn't move to take things any further, and Petyr didn't push her.

He sensed a deeper need in her — for comfort, for the assurance of his devotion — and as he tended to her he could feel her luxuriating in his attention, soaking it in. Her pleasure drove him onward tirelessly, his lips roaming her skin as her eyes grew distant and dreamy. He just needed time and he knew that could drive out the thought of any other man.

Jon was reckless with her — clumsy. He hurt her so easily, so thoughtlessly. He wouldn't take her, and he wouldn't let her go. And now here she was again, in Petyr's arms, her cheeks stained with the tears that Jon had caused to fall, all in the name of maintaining his honor.

_An honorable man can only be trusted to protect his own honor._

He couldn't be trusted with Sansa's heart. Petyr wouldn't allow it. She was his.

Nestled now against his chest, Sansa's eyes began to close as her breathing slowed. Petyr stood, lifting her easily in his arms, and carried her to the wide four post bed on the other side of the room. Pressing kisses against her shoulders as his hands worked, he quickly helped her shed her gown and slide naked beneath the sheets.

"Thank you, Petyr, for being so sweet and good to me," she said touching his face as he sat on the edge of the bed, her eyelids heavy. "I know I'm not great company tonight. I'm sorry."

"Hush now, my love," he said kissing her. "I told you not to apologize to me. I'm the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms to have you naked in my bed. What could I possibly have to complain about?"

Sansa smiled at his words, and nestled down into furs. Her eyes were closed before he even stood.

Petyr returned to the fire and poured himself more wine. Taking a sip, he sat in the chair that faced the bed, watching Sansa as her hair fell across her face, her shoulders rising and falling steadily in her sleep.

She looked so peaceful. He could make her happy. She would see.

His thoughts turned darkly to Jon. The announcement of his betrothal would change things significantly. It would solidify Jon's claim, and it was clear that the devotion that the North felt toward him could now only be rivaled by the child he intended to wed. He felt his plan begin to shift and change shape. He would need to act — and soon.

But what about Sansa? He was closer than ever to his goal, which made each foothold more tenuous, each move more fraught with danger. He gladly accepted the risks, setting up contingencies where he could and living with the rest. But Sansa — he couldn't risk her. If he failed, he needed to know that she was safe. He stared into the fire as his plan began to form.

* * *

It was mid-morning as Petyr stepped into the study that was now the small council chamber. As he bowed his head to Jon and took his seat, he couldn't help the small smile that played on his lips. He'd left Sansa sleeping in his bed with heavy guard at the door, her red hair splayed against the pillows, her lips still crimson from the ravishing that he'd visited upon her.

His blood stirred as his mind turned back to her. He'd awoken to her warm and already wet in his arms, her kiss eager. By the time he was finished with her she had fallen back asleep, exhausted.

He wished he could tell Jon, then and there. Petyr wanted to see his face when told him how Sansa quivered beneath his touch, how she tasted even better than she smelled, like clover and honey, how she'd gasped as he entered her and cried out his name as she came.

Instead, he took his seat quietly, waiting to be acknowledged, to be told why he'd been summoned. Jon was already deep in conversation with Tormund, discussing the lands that had been set aside for the wildlings to settle a day's ride from Winterfell.

Petyr had been the mastermind of the plan, expertly assessing the complex interplay of politics between the houses of the North and finding a solution that left everyone more or less satisfied — or at least not angry enough to fight about it. Of course, both sides would balk if they knew that this plan came from a southerner, so Jon had done the negotiations.

He watched the two men as they talked to one another, heads inclined, a true and obvious camaraderie between them. Petyr didn't know much of the wildlings, but it was obvious that deference and respect were not something that they were accustomed to paying anyone, particularly to those from south of the Wall, but both were apparent on Tormund's face as he spoke with Jon.

To Jon's right sat Ser Davos, nodding gravely, his eyes twinkling with an almost fatherly pride as Jon spoke. That both men loved him was clear. They would gladly fall on their swords for him. Like Ned Stark before him, Jon inspired that sort of blind allegiance.

He had the noble, unstudied air of the heroes of old, and men and women alike responded to him instinctually. He'd been made Lord Commander of the Night's Watch at only twenty. He'd shown up at the gates of Winterfell, a bastard and a deserter, with Petyr's army and his sister's name and they'd bowed to him, naming him King in the North.

In all of Petyr's years not one shred of influence or power had ever been handed to him. He'd fought tirelessly for all that he had, and barely slept at night for trying to protect it. And now Jon had been handed an entire kingdom to rule, a kingdom that he had no right to by name or by merit, and Petyr was expected to help him keep it.

But Jon was far too like the other Stark lords, like Ned and like Robb, and their downfall would be his, as well. Honorable men could only truly rule over other honorable men, and there weren't that many honorable men left in this world. Petyr certainly wasn't one of them.

"Lord Baelish," said Jon, turning to him. "Thank you for joining us. I'd like to ask your assistance in this matter."

"Of course, Your Grace," said Petyr inclining his head. "I'm at your service."

"Good," said Jon. "I need you to take twenty of your best men and ride for the new settlement with Tormund in the morning. The Free Folk will begin making their homes there immediately. Winter is here so there is no time to waste."

"You call this winter?" asked Tormund, his voice booming. "You don't know what cold is until you can't take a piss without it freezing before it hits the ground."

"Maybe I'm just tired of seeing your ugly face every day," replied Jon. A smile was on his lips, but his eyes flashed with obvious warning. Tormund grinned at him, and went silent.

"I know you understand how delicate this situation is," Jon said, turning back to Petyr. "The lands have been cleared of what few people called it home, but there are likely to still be hold outs." Petyr nodded.

"I need to have a presence there in case things go awry, but I also can't have this feeling like an invasion. You and your men should hang back and not get involved unless it is absolutely necessary. Provided there are no major incidents, I only need to you to stay for a day or two."

"Of course, Your Grace," replied Petyr.

"Good," said Jon. "We'll pray that you have an uneventful trip, and when you return there will be a great feast. I hope to announce my betrothal in just a few days' time."

"Congratulations, Your Grace," said Petyr, feigning surprise. "And might the lucky lady be?"

"Lyanna Mormont," said Jon. "And don't congratulate me yet. She hasn't said yes, and she's one of the few ladies of the great houses who has yet to express an interest."

"I knew I liked her," said Tormund. "Smart girl."

"That she is," said Jon. "She could very well deny me. I'll make my intentions known tomorrow, and we shall see."

"I wish you luck and every happiness, Your Grace," said Petyr. "Now if you'll give me leave, I need to go start preparations with my men."

"Yes, of course," said Jon.

Petyr smiled to himself as he made his way down the passageway back his chambers. Everything was falling into place even better than he'd dared to hope. It was time to get to work.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Hi guys. Sorry this update took so long to get posted. I had a crazy week. Just know that I truly appreciate all the awesome notes and reviews I've been getting. I read them all, and they seriously make my day.

P.S. I started a Tumblr for this story awhile ago as a way to keep track of some of my inspiration. If you'd like to follow along you can find it here: of-fire-and-snow dot tumblr dot com. Follow me and I'll follow you back.


	14. Sansa

**Sansa (Part One)**

Sansa woke to the press of Petyr's kiss against her temple.

"I'm a lucky man to come back to find you still naked in my bed," he murmured against her skin.

Sansa smiled, turning toward him with a languid stretch, her eyes blinking against the light. The aching in her head from the brandy had dulled, and her muscles still sang with the sweet afterglow of their earlier love making. Petyr smoothed back her hair as she looked up at him.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, his gray-green eyes warm.

"Better," she said, surprised to find how deeply she meant it.

Then she remembered. Pain lanced through her briefly as she thought about how Jon had looked in the Godswood, his eyes haunted and flashing, his lips hungry and demanding as they took hers — but she pushed the image away. Whatever madness took over when she and Jon were together was just that: madness. That she was even thinking of him in that was—

No. She had to accept what was. And what was, was Petyr.

"Thank you, for last night," she said turning her face to nuzzle against his hand as it caressed her cheek. "And this morning." She bit her teeth playfully into the heel of his palm, enjoying the low growl that it produced in him.

"I'm more than glad to be of service," he said, lowering himself over her, his weight supported on his forearms as he cradled her head in his hands. "Nothing is more important to me than your happiness."

Sansa gladly lost herself in his kiss.

She had come to him the night before out of desperation. Through the haze of the brandy she'd been convinced that his men in the yard were watching her, waiting to report back. And maybe they had — she couldn't be sure. She just knew that she had to protect Jon, to protect herself. So she went to Petyr's chamber, her face still streaked with tears.

She'd found that the best way to move Petyr wasn't with her strength, but with her vulnerability. When she moved against him, he countered so swiftly, glancing away from her — a ghost. But when she opened herself to him, when she let him see her break in his arms, he was hers.

She'd felt the gathering storm of his suspicion from the moment she'd walked through the door, but her tears quickly tamed him. He'd been so sweet with her, gentling and soothing her, giving her exactly what she needed without her ever having to say the words. It stirred something deep inside of her to be loved that way, especially by so deadly a man. To draw such tenderness from him felt like drawing blood from a stone.

She knew it was a dangerous dance, but if she could just get through the next few days—

Sansa pushed that thought away as well. The thought of finding happiness, any kind of happiness, was almost too much to bear. If she'd learned anything in the time since she'd left this castle as a girl it was that there was nothing more dangerous, nothing more devastating than hope.

"Tell me, sweetling, what had you so upset last night?" His eyes were gentle as his lips ghosted over hers, but Sansa knew that the question contained more than just concern. Sansa didn't look away, letting him see the darkness cloud her eyes as she told him a truth — though not _the_ truth.

"It's just…being here again, in Winterfell. I thought that it was what I wanted. It was all that I wanted in the world. But now I'm here and there are so many memories. Memories of my family, memories of Ramsay—" her voice broke around that name, and Petyr's eyes flashed with a raw mix of fury and anguish.

"There's just too much pain here now," she continued. "I just want to leave."

"Then we'll leave," said Petyr, a fierce tenderness in his voice. "Just say the word."

Sansa kissed him with genuine gratitude.

"Soon," she said. "We have to do things in the right order if we want to maintain an alliance with the North. Jon is starting to — well not trust you exactly, but he's starting to come around. If we leave abruptly without his blessing it will undo all of the work that you've done. I can wait out the fortnight."

A smile ghosted across his lips as he regarded her for a long moment. Sansa smiled back offering her lips to him. He accepted, his kiss sweet and gentle.

Sansa was breathless when he finally pulled away. Rearing up, he rose into a sitting position, pulling her with him.

"If we don't get out of bed now," he said darkly, "I'll keep you here all day."

"I like the sound of that," she replied, letting the furs pool around her waist as she sat, her nipples beading in the cool air.

Petyr drank her in with his eyes as they flashed wickedly, her brazenness igniting his desire. With one hand he lightly traced the outline of her breast, the pad of his thumb swiping gently across one nipple. Sansa shivered, her lips parting.

"Someone will be looking for you," he said huskily. "It's almost midday." Sansa's eyes widened.

"Is it really?" she asked. She couldn't remember a time that she'd slept so late. It wasn't like her. And if Jon were to come looking for her—

Petyr laughed as she scrambled out of bed. Standing he caught her wrist, drawing her back towards him, spinning her so that she stood pressed up against his chest, her bare flesh against his fine brocade. The feeling of being naked in the arms of such a finely dressed man was oddly intoxicating, threatening to crowd out her panic and her reason.

Petyr smirked as he saw the sudden shift in her, his move having had the intended effect. He fisted one hand in the hair at the nape of her neck bringing her eyes to his.

"One day soon, when we've left this place, I will keep you in bed for a week. I swear it," he said with a searing kiss. "But today I have preparations to make."

"Preparations?" asked Sansa as he released her, her head still swimming. Petyr held out one of his robes for her and she shrugged into it, belting it loosely around her waist.

"Unfortunately, yes," he said. "Your brother has asked me to take my best men and accompany the wildlings to their new settlement to make sure that no one disturbs the peace. I leave at first light. It should only be a few days."

Sansa found herself surprised at how much this news distressed her. She'd only just spent the last three nights with Petyr, but she found herself suddenly anxious about spending the night without him.

When she didn't reply he turned to her, his eyes softening when he saw her face and then flashing with a quiet triumph.

"I'll miss you," she said simply, her voice small.

"Oh, my love, I'll miss you, too," he said pressing a kiss to her forehead. "But we'll be reunited soon, I promise."

Sansa nodded.

"Come," he said, "I've had your things brought from your chamber. You can't very well be seen in what you were wearing last night. Let's get you dressed."

* * *

Sansa slipped into the small dining hall just as the bells in the distance struck noon. Her stomach was growling from having skipped breakfast and dinner the night before. If her absence had been noticed, no one said anything, the room full and bustling with their many guests.

Tormund's great bellowing laughed echoed out across the room, and Sansa stopped short, her heart catching in her throat when she Jon seated beside him. His face was dark and brooding as he stabbed at his meat, his eyes distracted and unfocused. Tormund didn't seem to notice, another great guffaw pouring out of him at whatever bawdy joke he'd just made.

She'd hoped that Jon would take his meal in the council chambers as he had done lately, working through his midday meal and well until after the sun had set. But here he was.

And by the gods he was beautiful. His hair was pulled back from his face revealing his strong jaw and black eyes, the scars from battle somehow only made him more handsome. Everything about him was brutal and yet finely carved, savage and elegant.

And the heart that beat beneath that broad chest—

Sansa felt her mouth go dry. She couldn't stay here. She was about to turn to on her heels to leave when Tormund called out to her.

"Sansa! Come sit with us! Maybe you can lift your brother's spirits before he ruins this perfectly good mutton with all his stabbing!"

Jon's eyes shot up, finding her the crowd. The jolt that they sent through her took her breath away.

Without thinking she turned, walking as quickly as she could toward the door, resisting the urge to break into a run.

She couldn't face him.

She kept telling herself that this fever would pass, but it only seemed to grow by the day, her growing connection with Petyr doing nothing to lessen it. When she was with Petyr she could almost forget. He stirred true feelings in her of passion, desire, and even love. In time, she believed that he could make her happy.

But the draw that she felt to Jon was overwhelming, and as the reality of her feelings for him crashed over her she was filled with a tumult of warring emotions — dread, horror, and disgust coursing through her mixed with the warm, thick elixir of her desire for him.

He was her brother — her own flesh and blood. It was wrong. It was dangerous. It could be the ruin of them both.

And what of the man whose kiss she could still feel on her swollen lips? How could she give herself to him, blooming so easily under his touch? How could she confess her love to him and still harbor this sickness inside her. What was she that desire for her own brother could drive out all sense and reason, to say nothing of the genuine emotion that she felt for Petyr.

Sansa reached the door to the spiraling stairs of the east tower and pushed the heavy door open. She began her climb, taking the stairs two at a time, but heard the door catch behind her.

"Sansa, wait." Jon's voice stopped her cold. "Please, don't run from me. I can't bear it."

"But I can't bear to stay," she said, keeping her back to him, her voice almost shrill with her desperation. Through the small window she could see a hawk flying far in the distance against the cold blue sky.

"I'm so sorry," said Jon, his voice low and filled with anguish. "I don't know what's wrong with me, Sansa. I can't explain what's happening, I just— I promise that what happened last night — it won't happen again. I swear it."

Sansa remembered the feel of his lips on hers, the way that his strong arms had cradled her against him, the clean, earthy scent of him — it felt so utterly right. When she was in his arms she was Sansa Stark of Winterfell once more. She was home. Without him, she didn't know what she was.

She wanted to sink to her knees and sob right there on the stairs. She wanted to turn and rush into Jon's arms, to kiss him until all the torment and pain left them both, but he was her brother and their kiss could only ever rend them apart. It couldn't heal, it could only destroy. So instead she kept her eyes on the hawk as it circled slowly above the naked tree branches etched in black against the stony sky.

"Forgive me," his voice was a serrated whisper behind her, the sound of it ripping through Sansa leaving only desolation and grief in its wake. She turned to him slowly so he could see her face, needing him to believe her words.

"There's nothing to forgive," she said her voice hollow. "But it has to end."

His face twisted bitterly, but he nodded his ascent.

"I know," he said, "and it will."

"Good," she said, fighting to keep her voice from breaking as her tears threatened to fall. Before he could see them she turned away and continued her climb, leaving him.

 

* * *

 

 **Author's Note:** Thank you again for all of the amazing reviews and messages. You guys are the best.


	15. Petyr

**Chapter Fifteen | Petyr**

He arrived at her chamber door just before midnight. It was later than he'd hoped by a few hours, but preparations had taken longer than he'd expected and a dozen or so matters needed his attention before his departure in the morning.

He hesitated before he knocked, not wanting to wake her, but not wanting to leave without seeing her — without giving her his gift. He couldn't leave her alone without knowing that she would be provided for no matter the outcome.

He knocked softly, and was pleased to hear the soft flutter of her footsteps behind the door. She had been waiting for him.

"You're late," she said crossly as she opened the door, moving aside to let him enter. He could tell that she'd intended her petulance to be playful, but the genuine sadness in her eyes drowned out any trace of feigned mirth.

Could she really be so bothered by his departure? His eyes around the castle had told him that she hadn't eaten all day, and the dinner that she'd finally taken in her chamber at Lady Brienne's insistence sat largely untouched on her table.

Petyr placed the large shallow box he was carrying on the bed and turned to her, opening his arms. She made no move towards him, so he went to her, gathering her to him, one hand in her hair, his eyes searching hers.

"I'm sorry, my love," he said with the ghost of a smile, "don't be cross with me. I came as soon as I could."

"Do you have to leave?" she asked, turning her clear blue eyes up toward his, silently pleading with him from under thick lashes. She knew how beguiling she was, and she was using her wiles to try to get him to stay. Petyr's heart filled with warmth and triumph.

"I'm afraid the king commands it," he replied lifting her chin with his fingers. He took her mouth gently, his kiss slow and tender, smiling against her lips as he felt her soften against him.

"I'll come back soon," he murmured as his lips made their way along her jaw, seeking out the place just behind her ear that made her shiver in his arms. "It will only be three days, maybe four."

"Two," she replied, her tone, stubborn but with a hint of smile.

"Three," he said firmly, his tongue tracing the shell of her ear, then devouring the tender flesh below with a wick lash of his tongue.

"Two." Her words were a pant now. With a low growl he hooked his hands behind her thighs lifting her, carrying her to the bed.

"Fine," he said placing her on the high bed next to the box he placed there. "Two."

Sansa's eyes sparkled up at him as he stood between her legs, the ice in them finally melting. Petyr smoothed back her hair and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I can't stay for long," he said, "but I've brought you a gift."

"A gift?" she asked, her eyes straying to the box beside her.

"Yes, my love," he said, placing it in her lap, seeing her surprise at its deceptive weight. The box was both wider and longer than her lap, though only a few inches deep. The fine rosewood was carved delicately around the edges with images of roses that Sansa traced lightly with her fingers.

"I know that trusting me has not been easy, but I swear to you that my love for you is true," he said, his fingers ghosting across her cheek. "Consider this a token of my devotion."

Sansa regarded him for a moment, her blue eyes deep and unfathomable.

"Open it," he urged.

Sansa's delicate fingers undid the clasp on the front and slowly raised the lid. As she did the low light of the candles that lit her chamber danced in refracted glory across her face.

"Petyr," she gasped in awe. Inside the box was a necklace so large and intricate that it was more an elaborate collar. It began at the neck in the shape of flames set with rows of rubies, garnets, and yellow sapphires, vivid and dancing like fire itself then fading into lighter and lighter jewels until the only color that remained was the candlelight dancing in the diamonds below.

Sansa's fingers ghosted over the jewels, not quite daring to touch them, each one surely larger, more perfect, and more beautiful than any that she had seen before, even in Kings Landing. And at the center was the biggest and most glorious of them all, a flawless diamond set at the center of an elaborate snowflake.

"A token?" she said finally raising her slightly dazed eyes to his. Petyr laughed, a full and throaty noise that sounded foreign even to his own ears.

"Yes, my love. It is but a token." Petyr knelt before her. Looking up into her stunned blue eyes, he took her trembling hands between his own.

"This is the is most valuable thing that I own," he said, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "I paid dearly for it, and I have guarded it more jealously than I have ever guarded anything — even my own life." Sansa's face was frozen and uncomprehending.

"This is a dangerous game we're playing," he continued, his voice full of emotion, "and the time may come soon when you question my devotion to you. When that moment comes, I want you to remember that I gave you the most valuable thing that I own. No, more than that — the most valuable thing in the Seven Kingdoms, surely. Though I've searched, I've never found its equal. But it means nothing to me next to your safety and happiness, and with this, I can guarantee your safety and happiness no matter what may come of me."

Petyr reached his hand up to cradle Sansa's face as her eyes strayed back to the glittering masterpiece in her lap. At his touch they suddenly snapped into focus.

"Someone will be looking for this," she said, her eyes flashing and wild.

"No, my love," he said with a sad smile. "There is no one left living that knows that it even exists."

Sansa regarded him for a long moment. He could see the questions roiling in her, each one surging to the surface, only to be displaced by another before it could be voiced. She didn't trust him. The knowledge twisted deep inside him, cutting him in secret places.

He hadn't known about Ramsay. He should have, but he hadn't. It's seemed so obvious now, but he'd been blinded.

As Alayne she'd seemed like steel to him, her eyes cold and steady, her chin raised and unflinching. Even as he mourned for the doe eyed girl that she had been before Lysa's death, he was dazzled by the woman that raised herself in her place.

Here she was, his Catelyn returned to him, more perfect and radiant in her youth than she had ever been in even his most feverish boyhood dreams. But this time she was made of something harder. This time she forsook her girlish dreams of knights and honor. This time she could be not only his, but perhaps —someday — an equal.

He was so transfixed by her, by the idea of her, by the idea of them both together, that he'd moved recklessly. He'd stepped without looking. He'd made a mistake. And he'd delivered her into the very jaws of hell.

"I would never put you in harm's way, my love. Never again. I swear it." He bowed his head as he spoke, unable to even look at her. A dark, cloying sickness rose in him bringing bile to the back of his throat — an emotion he had never felt before and could not quite name. The silence stretched on between them, full and humid.

Finally, Sansa reached down bringing his face back up to hers.

"It's beautiful," she said, her eyes softer now, but filled with an unspoken anguish.

"It was meant for you," he said bringing her hands to his lips. "It's made of fire and snow."

"I want to try it on." A smile ghosted across her lips, and Petyr felt his returning grin burst across his face.

Petyr rose in one graceful motion, taking the box from her lap with one hand and offering his other to her as she stood. He drew her across the room to a long mirror with an ornate gilded frame.

Standing behind her, he smoothed her long, silken red hair back behind her shoulders. She was so beautiful that he could scarcely breathe.

He regarded their reflections together in the mirror for a moment. She an alabaster goddess in the dancing firelight, and he dark and flashing behind her, his angular features rendered slightly more sinister by the contrast of her youthful beauty. And yet, somehow, they seemed so right.

With one hand he reached around her, gently tracing the warm flesh above her gown, ghosting beneath her collar bone.

"This neckline won't do," he said, his lips at her ear. "You need something more plunging to show off the necklace to its greatest effect."

Sansa's eyes met his in the mirror, wide and innocent, but something mischievous sifted through them, igniting his blood.

"Well, perhaps you could help me into something more to your liking, my Lord." Petyr felt his cock being to stir beneath his robes. Not breaking his eyes from hers his fingers began to deftly undo the delicate buttons at the back of her gown.

He undressed her slowly, his hands moving reverently over her, his lips at her ear speaking heated word of praise at her beauty, promises of his devotion. Sansa's eyes were hooded and dreamy by the time he had her bare, drinking in the sight of her in the mirror as he stood over she shoulder.

He longed to slide his hands over her milk white skin, to feel the smooth muscle of her flanks, to test the weight of her breasts in his eager hands, but she was so perfect standing there, so surreal in her beauty that instead he pressed a chaste kiss to her shoulder, breathing in the delicate rose petal smell of her.

Reaching behind him, he lifted the heavy collar from its box. Carefully undoing the clasp, he brought it around to the front of her, settling the weight of the massive diamond snowflake between her breasts. From there the necklace splayed extravagantly outward, sticking out across her shoulders and dripping lavishing down her back.

As he secured it around her neck, the ruby red flames licked up the smooth white column of her throat mixing with the fire of her hair. Together they were ivory and crimson, ice and flame. Petyr's breath caught, his heart beat faltering. This was his queen.

"Petyr—" Sansa's fingers drifted up to touch the gems, but flitted away. Her eyes raised to his in the mirror.

"It's beautiful," she breathed.

Petyr turned her in his arms, his lips seeking hers. He wanted to tell her that it could never be as beautiful as she was, but he found that he couldn't even speak.

Wordlessly, he carried her to the bed. It was almost daylight before he left her.

* * *

The scent of her still clung to him as he rode through the gates of Winterfell. Dawn crept cold and quiet across the sky, the winter sun hiding behind an endless cover of grey. Ahead of him rode twenty of his best men, the breath of the horses steaming in the morning air as their hooves clopped across the frozen earth.

The town around Winterfell was just beginning to stir. Here and there young boys scampered through the retreating shadows carrying firewood or sloshing buckets from the well. As they made their way between the houses, windows winked to life with the sputtering flame from a fresh made fire.

At the end of the road just at the outskirts of the town, rising two stories above the tallest house was the inn, it's wooden sides grey as everything else in this gods forsaken place — everything grey on grey on grey.

As they reached it, Petyr swung wide from his party, dismounting fluidly. He nodded at Ser Dandrick who nodded solemnly back as he quickly tied his up his horse. He would meet them on the road. He needed only a quarter of an hour to handle this business, and then it would be done.

His grey-green eyes swept the ramshackle town behind him, tracing his way all the way back to the gates of the castle, but he saw no one save some the scuttling peasant children trying to outrun the frigid morning chill.

Petyr made his way to the door, moving like a shadow. It opened before he could knock.

"Come in, my lord. We've been expecting you."

* * *

**Author's Note:** YOU. GUYS. I am so sorry that this update took so long, I have a million excuses — all of them boring. Suffice it to say that I've been busy.

Anyway, I promise to not be so long with the next update. I have the next ten chapters outlined, and I honestly couldn't be more excited about what is to come. Buckle up.


	16. Brienne

Brienne stood in the shadows watching the men in the yard below, their armor glinting dully in the grey morning light as they prepared their horses. Propping one arm up against the cold stone next to the window, she shook her head briefly trying to throw off the sleep that fought to take her.

She'd barely slept in three days, keeping a near constant vigil. She'd abandoned her post once when Stannis had ridden with his depleted army for Winterfell, and Lady Sansa had almost paid the price with her life. She would not make the same mistake again.

Brienne straightened as Littlefinger appeared in the yard below, pulling on black gloves as he made his way toward his men. He was dressed in dark green brocade, a fine black cloak streaming behind him supple as a shadowcat. As he turned his face upward to the battlements above, the smile that played across his face made Brienne's stomach turn. He had the look of an alley cat after a fresh kill.

After speaking briefly with one of his men, Littlefinger mounted his horse in one swift motion. He seemed fresh and full of energy despite the nights…exertions. Brienne tried not to remember the sounds that she'd heard coming from Lady Sansa's chamber as she'd kept her watch in the hall.

Sansa was in grave danger — of that Brienne was certain. And she'd invited her enemy into her very bed. How Littlefinger had managed it in so short a time, Brienne could not be certain, but she found herself wishing, not for the first time, that she'd cut him down in Mole's Town when she'd had the chance.

As the men rounded up their mounts, the gate began to rise, the new wood of the rebuilt door standing in stark contrast to the soot stained stones of the castle walls. Littlefinger rode out first flanked by two of his men. The Wildlings would follow later in the day.

Even as the gate was lowered back into place, Brienne stood in the tower window, unable to tear herself away. She watched the road below until Littlefinger and his men appeared from behind the shadow of the wall making their way between the squat houses of the Winter Town.

For days she had been watching Littlefinger and seen nothing of note, save his unsettling fixation on Lady Sansa, and yet, Brienne swore she felt a shift in him. It was slow and subtle, it coiled darkly inside him like a viper. She felt it in her blood that he would strike soon.

It would be a relief to have him outside the castle walls for a few days. Perhaps she could find a way to speak to Sansa, to make her see reason. At the very least it was a few day's rest from her watch.

The Knights of the Vale were silver dots now as they reached the edge of town with Littlefinger in the lead, his black cloak streaming behind him. As they disappeared behind the inn, the last of the buildings at the edge of the village, Brienne felt herself relax for the first time in days. He was almost gone. She would watch him until he reached the horizon and then she would sleep. And with sleep, perhaps, would come the answer.

But as the men reappeared past the inn, Littlefinger was missing. Brienne counted the men, and counted them again, her eyes searching for his streaming black cloak, but he was gone. Brienne took off down the twisting stairs at a run before she had even fully formed the thought. She had to know where he had gone.

Brienne slowed herself as she reached the yard below, willing herself to move at a more casual pace. Littlefinger's men still haunted the castle even in his absence. She had to be careful not to raise suspicions.

She made her way to the stables, waving off the stable boy and quickly saddling her horse herself. As soon as she was mounted she made her way to the gate, waving as casually as she could to the men on the battlements.

"An errand for Lady Stark," she called up to them. The one with the salt and pepper beard nodded down to her and motioned for the gate to be raised.

As soon as she was past the gates, Brienne cut to her left, making her way down a side street that was barely more than alley, racing as quickly as she dared parallel to the main road. As she approached the inn, she dismounted quickly, tying her horse to a post out of sight of the door.

Silently, she crept around the side of an abandoned hovel. The Winter Town had already begun to fill up as the snows began to fall, but here and there at the edge of town still stood empty houses. Brienne tested the door and it opened easily. Looking over her shoulder to make sure she wasn't followed, she slipped inside.

The ramshackle house was empty save a wooden bucket in the corner and a rotten log that sat frozen in the hearth. The dirt floor crunched beneath her boots as she moved to the back window. Carefully avoiding the morning light that slanted through the filthy glass, she peered out.

The inn was still mostly dark. Only the lights from the kitchen blazed orange through the early morning light, the chimney smoke etching shadows against the sky. Brienne watched carefully, but saw no one except the kitchen servants moving about inside readying breakfast.

"Where are you?" she whispered aloud, her breath hanging in the air.

And then she saw it — the glimmer of a fire in the window of the highest room. The heavy curtains had been pulled, but as her eyes adjusted to the darkness she could see the faintest hint of light filtering through the seam. Someone was awake. Was that person with Littlefinger?

Brienne stood silently, her eyes barely blinking as she watched the inn. Why had he stopped here? Who was he meeting with? Why such secrecy? Brienne couldn't be sure, but her intuition twisted darkly. She couldn't say how, but she knew this was it. Littlefinger was making his move.

But what was it? Her fist clenched in the dark.

Suddenly Littlefinger appeared at the door of the inn, his flashing eyes sweeping the from left to right as he emerged, clearly not wishing to be spotted. He stole along the side of the inn and lithely mounted his horse. Brienne stepped back into the shadows as he rode by, his angular features cutting a chilling profile, his black cloak streaming behind him.

The light caught his face as he neared the hovel where she hid, and the small twisted smile that played across his lips made Brienne's blood turn to ice.

* * *

 

 **Author's Note:**  I know, I know. I am trash for not updating in months. Things in my life got kind of crazy and I ended up selling my worldly possessions so that I can spend 2017 traveling the world. The goal is to get this story wrapped before then. I know that this chapter is short and not the juicy update you were probably hoping for, but I promise that a LONG Jon chapter is coming sometime in the next 48 hours, and it's going to be a fun one. 


	17. Jon

I know, I know. It’s been for-fucking-ever. I’m the worst. Thank you to all of you who have hung in there and continued to send me messages over these long months. I’m traveling right now and my free time is almost non-existent, but I haven’t forgotten you and I definitely have not forgotten this story. I can’t make any promises on a timeline, but I will finish it. I swear.

 

I think that this chapter in particular held me up because it’s here that we meet Lyanna Mormont — and I’ve honestly been slightly intimidated by the prospect of writing her. She’s a fierce little lady and I wanted to do her justice. I hope I’ve succeeded.

* * *

 

 **Chapter 17 | Jon**  
  
  


It was early morning and the fire roaring in the giant fireplace had only just begun to drive away the chill from the study when Jon entered, the slightest hint of his breath still hanging in the air as he closed the door behind him. Deep in the castle walls he could hear the stirrings of the day about to begin. From the yard below rose shouts of the men readying horses for their departure.

Jon crossed to the window just as the gate was rising. Littlefinger and his men stood mounted before it, prepared for the ride ahead of them with Littlefinger himself at the lead, his black cloak unfurling behind him. Jon was glad to see him go. He’d been nothing but helpful and deferential from the time he appeared at the battle with his legion of shining knights, and yet something about his presence rankled in the back of Jon’s mind.

It was something in the way he carried himself, the glint of his green eyes as he skulked in the shadows, always just out of the action and yet somehow Jon felt that he had his hand in everything, pulling invisible strings and laughing as they all danced.

Raising a hand in a courtly salute to the men at the gate, Littlefinger rode through it with his men in toe. The sight of him leaving filled with Jon with a vague sense of relief. He was glad to be rid of him, if only for a few days. His presence made him uneasy, as did the realization that he was powerless to rid himself of this snake in his walls.

The door opened and Ser Davos entered, flexing his fingers inside of his leather gloves against the cold.

“Good morning, Jon,” he said as the door closed behind him. “Glad to be rid of that one, are you?”

Jon turned, his face still dark with his thoughts, but his eyes betraying his fondness for the old knight before him. Davos saw much and judged little, something that inspired a deeper gratitude in Jon than he was able to voice.

“Would that I could be rid of him for good,” he replied with a wry smile, “but for now it looks like we are married to one another. So much for being the most powerful man in the North.”

“That’s the funny thing about power,” said Ser Davos crossing to warm himself in front of the fire. “The most powerful men have the least freedom and the most free men have the least power. Unfortunately for you, having a good deal of one means that you’ll have little of the other.”

Jon nodded gravely as thoughts of Sansa flashed through his mind, but he pushed them away — or as far away as he could. The image of her was never far from him and neither was the ache that it caused in his chest. He wore it now like a mantle close to his heart, making him feel heavy.

Jon moved to the fire beside Davos and for a moment they stood in comfortable silencet as the room around them began to warm.

“Lyanna is here,” said Jon finally breaking them both out of their reverie.

“Already?” The look of surprise on Davos’s face brought a smile to Jon’s.

“Our men met her on the road and she turned around immediately, riding through the night. I assumed she would spend the night somewhere and wait until the morning to be received, but —”

“But she’s not like other women,” said Ser Davos with a twinkle in his eye.

“That she isn’t,” said Jon. Though Lyanna was not a woman. She was only a girl. The thought still bothered Jon, and yet despite her youth, Lyanna seemed more of a woman grown than women twice her age. Hell, she was more of a man than most men he knew, as well.

“So today is the day, then,” said Davos turning to him. “Are you ready for that?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose,” said Jon keeping his eyes cast down to the fire.

“You’re doing the right thing,” said Davos, laying a hand on the young King’s shoulder.

Jon closed his eyes and nodded. The hand on his shoulder was fatherly and reassuring, holding him firmly to the earth even as the war inside him raged. This _was_ the right thing. He sighed deeply, finally lifting his eyes from the flames.

“I’d like you to be here,” he said. “When I ask her.” It wasn’t a traditional choice to have someone there, but this was hardly a traditional proposal, and Davos’s presence would help keep him steady.

“It would be an honor,” Ser Davos replied, squeezing his shoulder gently before releasing it.

“Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here.”

“She’s on her way now, actually. She doesn’t seem to see any need to wait to see why I summoned her, and I suppose I don’t either.”

“Alright then.”

As if on cue there was knock at the door. The two men’s eyes met, a world of meaning passing silently between them. Jon cleared his throat and squared his shoulders.

“Enter,” Jon said with a voice that he hoped sounded more kingly than he presently felt.

“Lady Lyanna of House Mormont, Your Grace,” announced Ser Dandrick with a flourish.

Lyanna swept through the door, her shoulders squared and her icy dignity wrapped tightly around her diminutive frame. Despite her size, her presence commanded both attention and respect. There was more than a hint of her uncle, the late Lord Commander, her steely gaze and Jon felt a sudden surge of protectiveness for the girl.

Lyanna was of the North — strong, fierce, noble, and unyielding. He couldn’t help but think that his father would have approved of this match and the thought warmed him.

“My lady,” he said moving forward to greet her. “Thank you for returning so quickly. I’m sorry to have interrupted your journey home.”

“I trust that Your Grace would not have summoned me had it not been a matter of grave import,” she replied.

“That it is. Please, have a seat.”

Jon held the chair for Lyanna and once she was settled sat at the head of the table with Ser Davos to his right. He met the knight’s eyes briefly, and finding the reassurance he needed, turned to Lyanna.

Her raven hair was pulled back severely from her face and her dark eyes took him in expectantly. Sitting in the high-backed chair, her skirts barely grazing the floor, it was easier to see her as the child that she was. It seemed unfair to ask so much of her, but the image of Rickon lying in the snow flashed bitterly through his mind. Children of winter didn’t have the luxury of being children for long 

Smoothing his hands down the wide arms of his chair, Jon drew in breath to speak, “My lady —”

A pointed clearing of Ser Davos’s throat interrupted him. One eyebrow cocked, Jon slid a questioning look in the knight’s direction. With a flick of his eyes and a subtle incline of his head, Ser Davos gestured to the space between Jon and Lyanna.

Jon smoothed one gloved hand over his face, collecting himself, then stood, lowering himself gracefully on one knee to the floor before the young Mormont.

“My lady,” he began again looking up at her, “As you surely know, the North is in need of a queen and I am in need of a wife. I could never hope to be worthy of your hand, but I hope that your love for the realm will compel you to overlook whatever shortcomings I may have and accept my proposal. Will you do the me the great honor of marrying me, Lyanna?”

It felt courtly enough, he thought. From the corner of his eye he could see Ser Davos nod his approval, a small smile playing on his lips.

Lyanna, however, appeared...unmoved. She regarded him silently for a moment, her gaze unwavering. Behind her eyes, Jon could see her sharp mind stirring. She cocked her head slightly to the side as if weighing something, then all of a sudden something seemed to spark in her and he could see that it was decided.

“Is this a request or a command, Your Grace?” she replied finally.

“A request, my lady, to be sure. I would never command you into a marriage if it wasn’t what you desired, but I —”

“Then I must decline,” she said, her voice solid and resolute.

Jon sat back on is heels, feeling somewhat stunned. He’d known that rejection was a possibility, but it wasn’t one of which he’d considered the full ramifications.

If not Lyanna, then who? He’d had his concerns about her age, to be sure, but as she sat before him now, poised and full of quiet strength, he could see that those fears had been largely unfounded. Ser Davos had been right to suggest her as a match, and Jon had a hard time imagining who else he could ask to stand at his side against the horrors that he knew were to come. Who else, except for—

He pushed that thought away with a brief shake of his head and looked back up into Lyanna’s soft, wide face, the stoney set of her jaw erasing any hint of girlishness from her countenance. He gave her a small rueful smile and stood.

“I won’t insult you by beleaguering the point,” he said finally, settling himself back into his chair. “It’s clear that when you make a decision your mind has been made. But might I ask why?”

Lyanna didn’t shrink from his question, but seemed to pause for a moment to consider her words.

“I do not intend to wed until I am older, Your Grace” she replied. “It is difficult enough for a woman to be regarded as an equal in a marriage. It’s more difficult still when that woman is a child. I will not be made a ward and I will not allow the fate of my people to be sold off with mine like so much cattle.”

“You must know that I would never treat you that way, Lyanna,” Jon replied earnestly, leaning forward on his elbows, his hands interlaced on the table. “I asked you here above all the other ladies in the North because, despite your age, you’re the only gir— the only _woman_ I know who is equal to the task of standing by my side and leading my people. The greatest threat that this realm has ever known is bearing down on us from beyond the wall. I need your strength and so does the North. My aim is not to shackle you with marriage, but rather to empower you to be the leader that I know you can be — that you are meant to be. I hope that you will take some time to reconsider.”

A small smile flitted across Lyanna’s face, the first sign of softness that he’d seen in her, but it was quickly covered again by a veil of impassivity.

“I thank you for your kind words, Your Grace,” she replied with a nod of her head, “but my decision remains the same.”

Jon sighed, looking down at his hands, one loose chunk of dark hair falling across his face. He was failing at this somehow and he couldn’t quite figure out why. He cast his eyes sideways to Davos to see if he might have something to offer, but the knight’s gaze was trained intently on Lyanna. Seeing what — Jon could only imagine.

Jon looked back to the girl consciously letting the King in the North fall away and leaving only the young bastard of Winterfell in his place. He’d worn his new title, the title that Lyanna had in many ways been the one to give him, like armor since the day that they had first knelt to him in the great hall. Without it he felt suddenly vulnerable, a raw nerve exposed to the bitter winter wind, but he needed her to see him as he was.

“Is there nothing that I can do to gain your trust, Lyanna?” he asked her, raising his eyes again to hers.

The change in him was clearly not lost on her. She turned her body so that she was facing him directly and leaned toward him, her elbows on the table mirroring his own position. Her eyes met his and looked deeply into them.

“You can gain my trust, by earning it, Your Grace. You can earn it by telling me the truth.”

Jon was taken aback. This raven-haired girl seemed to see right through him and he fought to maintain his composure against the feeling of being utterly exposed.

“And what truth might that be?”

“The truth as to why you’ve decided to propose to me. I believe that you have been sincere in all that you have said, but there is something else that you are holding back. It’s the reason that this decision has been made in such haste. It’s the reason that Ser Davos is here at your side. I can see it in your eyes. There is something else — something of critical import, something fraught with danger — and unless you are ready to share that secret with me, I can not enter into a marriage with you, because despite what you may say and despite what you may intend, Your Grace, we can’t enter into a marriage as equals unless there is trust between us. So I believe that the real question here is what can _I_ do to earn _your_ trust?”

Jon lowered his head, resting it on his hands. A rushing filled his ears and it felt like the ground had dropped away from beneath is feet, as if he was hanging there suspended in the millisecond before he fell.

Was he so transparent? Could everyone see it? He had no prayer of protecting the North, of protecting Sansa if that were so. In his weakness, he would bring disaster upon them all.

“You’re right,” he said, raising his head after a long moment, his voice hollowed out with strain and sadness. Lyanna’s steady gaze met his and it was suddenly too much to bear. He stood and made his way to the window looking out over the snow swirling in the courtyard below.

“There is something I’m not telling you,” he said finally without turning. “A secret that has the potential to turn the realm on its head. I dare not speak it, my lady, even to you.”

“Then I’m afraid that we are at an impasse, You Grace” came her reply. Jon nodded gravely, his eyes still trained on the courtyard below.

“My lady,” said Ser Davos, speaking for the first time, “I understand your reservations. You wouldn’t be fit to lead your people if you didn’t have them. You are wise well beyond your years. I’ve always admired a healthy skepticism. Mine has always served me well. It’s saved my life more than once.”

“However, if there is anything that I’ve learned in my long years, it’s that there are far worse things to lose in this world than your life, and from what I’ve seen beyond the wall there are things to fear that operate far beyond the realm of reason. There is a war coming — one that will make the horrors we’ve seen thus far seem like the games of children.”

“I’ve served a king before who proved himself to not be worthy of that service. We look to strong men, to righteous, honorable men to lead us through the darkness, but the harsh truth of it is that kings are men. They are not infallible. Their honor can falter, their hearts and minds can be corrupted. They can, with all of the noblest of intentions in their hearts, lead their men like lambs to the slaughter.”

“So why do you still follow, Ser Davos?” Lady Lyanna asked.

“Because I believe in this king. I see in him something that I never saw in Stannis — a humility and a strength that compels him to take right action and seek wise council without consideration for pride or the artifice of names and titles. He can lead us through this darkness, but he can’t do it alone. And right now, he needs you.”

“You were the first of the Northern houses to answer his call. I know that you believe him to be the one true King in the North. I won’t ask you to abandon your convictions nor will I endeavor any further to change your mind, but can you at least give us this one day. Stay here in these chambers and simply observe. If you don’t find for yourself a reason to reconsider, I’ll trouble you no more.”

The room fell into silence with only the crackle of the fire punctuating the heavy stillness. Jon knew that he should speak, but he felt somehow far removed from his own body. In the distance, thick smoke from the burned bodies of men and horses still rose here and there in tar black tendrils against the horizon.

“My men need time to rest after our journey,” said Lyanna finally. “I’ll stay long enough for them to get a good night’s sleep and out of respect for yourself and the king, I will do as you ask. But I ride for Bear Island at first light.”

“Thank you, my lady,” said Davos, his voice filled with gratitude.

Jon turned, his smile rueful and hard. He wasn’t sure what he could show the girl that would make her stay. He didn’t feel strong or noble or kingly or any of the other things that Davos seemed to see in him. All about him there was only macabre chaos and lingering death, and he didn’t know how to rule any of it. He didn’t even know how to rule himself it seemed.

He couldn’t help thinking again of Robb. It was Robb who had been raised to rule, Robb who had the blood of a true born Stark and the icy will of his father to do the right thing at any cost.

A sudden knock at the door jarred him from his dark thoughts.

“Enter,” he called, his voice rough with his barely bridled despair.

“Lady Sansa, Your Grace,” the knight announced.

Sansa entered and the sight of her, scarlet hair cascading about her shoulders, the deep blue of her gown rich against her ivory skin, was almost enough to make him weep. Her eyes fell on Lyanna and she hesitated in the doorway.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she said, her eyes not quite meeting his. “I can return later if this isn’t a good time.”

Jon found himself again without words, and again Ser Davos spoke in his place.

“Not at all, my Lady. We were just finishing here. Lady Lyanna has just agreed to sit in on the Small Council Meeting.”

Sansa nodded graciously, her skirts gliding across the floor as she took the seat next to the girl.

“Lady Lyanna, it’s a pleasure to see you again so soon.”

Sansa, of course, knew why Lyanna had been summoned. She knew the nature of the conversation that had taken place, but perhaps sensing the tension in the room didn’t ask. Instead she settled next to the girl, making small talk, her blue eyes sparkling at her with genuine affection.

Jon breathed deeply, filling his lungs and then letting the air slide from him slowly until he was empty, taking advantage of the momentary distraction to compose himself. This little plan of Davos’s was sure to fail, but he owed the knight enough to at least attempt to be the man that he believed him to be. Squaring his shoulders he took his place at the head of the table.

“What brings you here, Sansa?” he asked as his sister’s eyes turned finally to him, full of quiet expectation and something else that he couldn’t quite name. Her eyes darted somewhat shyly to her lap, and when she pulled them back to his there was an apology there.

“I came to speak to you of my engagement, Your Grace,” she answered. “Lord Baelish has received word from the Eyrie that Robin Arryn intends to make an offer of marriage. I’d like to ask that you grant his request.”

Jon closed his eyes, needing if only for one moment to be rid of the sight of her before him asking him to let her go. His heart had broken a thousand different ways since he learned of the death of his father, but this — this was a different kind of pain entirely. Death had been easier.

_I would welcome death a thousand times, but not this. Not this._

“Is this what you truly want?” he asked opening his eyes to search hers. There was sadness there, a pain the depths of which might even have mirrored his own. But there was a resolve there, too — the unwavering determination of a Stark who had made up her mind.

“It is.”

“It will be as you wish then,” he replied, his voice wrecked with a rage and a sorrow he could scarcely contain.

Sansa nodded, casting her eyes downward, no longer able or willing to look at him. Seeming to sense the storm rising in him, she rose from her chair, murmuring her goodbyes to Lyanna and made her way to the door.

Jon’s hands fisted in his leather gloves as he watched her leave, biting back the roar that threatened to burst from his chest, Lyanna and Davos and the bleeding North be damned. There was nothing but Sansa and the excruciating curve of her back as she walked away from him.

He was on his feet before he knew he had made the decision to move, but once he was in motion he knew that there was nothing in seven hells that could stop him. He only had to follow her. To stop her somehow. He was out the door in an instant without a word or a thought for the two stunned figures who still lingered at the table.

Ser Davos cleared his throat as his eyes met Lyanna’s. She nodded gravely at him in wordless acknowledgement, the scope and gravity of the situation clearly not lost on her.

“I see,” she said simply. “I thank you Ser Davos for your trust and guidance in this matter. When the King returns tell him that I have accepted his proposal.”

Ser Davos rose as the girl slid from her chair and straightened her skirts.

“I will, my Lady,” he said with a deep bow. “And thank you.”


End file.
